Masjid leadership in the U.S. often have sincere intentions to do what is best for their community. However, when faced with the choice between funding an expansion or investing in human resources, leadership frequently falls into what I call the Expansion Trap. This trade-off usually centers around accommodating the larger crowds that gather for Jumu‘ah, Taraweeh, and Eid prayers. Though these decisions are made with good intentions, they often lead to empty prayer halls, overworked staff, and the mismanagement of funds. To understand why this often occurs, we must first delve into the inner workings of the decision.  

The Drive for Expansion

At first glance, expansion feels like the most natural choice. A mosque’s primary purpose is to provide space for worship, so what better use of funds could there be than to welcome more believers in prayer? Additionally, expansion projects are highly visible and celebrated within the community. They serve as a symbol of “progress,” reflecting how success is often measured culturally by physical growth. While the outcome is tangible and exciting, it often comes with hidden, long-term consequences that weaken the very mission the masjid was built to serve.

The Question of Compensation

There is also the idea that those who work for the mosque should remain humble and not expect substantial income from mosque funds. Instead, people are encouraged to work for free for the sake of Allah ﷻ. After all, what deed is better than one done sincerely for the sake of Allah ﷻ? 

The Core Dilemma

This raises the question: to what extent does that justify fundraising for expansion, especially when the rows of the mosque remain empty during the five daily prayers? Furthermore, how can volunteers dedicate themselves solely to serving the mosque if doing so creates a financial deficit in providing for their families? 

Masjid Expansions: Counting the Costs

“Years go by collecting funds, sometimes from frustrated congregants, while the mosque remains empty.” [PC: Bayu Prayuda (unsplash)]

Let us first consider the reality of expanding the mosque to accommodate more worshippers during Jumu‘ah and the nights of Ramadan. Expanding the mosque leads to more overhead expenses for the mosque on a monthly basis. At the same time, the mosque is left empty for 25 out of the 30 days of the month. When a seasoned Mufti and Imam was asked about this disparity, he advised that our priority should be strengthening the community within the mosque by reviving a genuine concern (fikr) for the effort of da‘wah and practicing it in depth. This is not to say that accommodation and expansion should not be considered, or that they are not relevant or important. Rather, the argument is about where to place expansion on our priority list. If a mosque were to procure $250,000 over the year, how should that money be spent—or, in this case, in what cause should it be spent primarily?

Choosing to pursue an expansion project comes with significant trade-offs—massive budgets, long fundraising periods, and increased overhead expenses—making it one of the most common bottlenecks and financial pitfalls that mosques face, all while the daily rows of the mosque remain underutilized. You can’t meaningfully expand with just $200k. If expansion is pursued, it often means going all in—and suddenly the fundraising budget jumps from $250k to $2.5 million. Years go by collecting funds, sometimes from frustrated congregants, while the mosque remains empty.

The mosque’s primary focus often becomes raising and allocating funds for expansion, while everything else takes a backseat. One example is a mosque that raised over $2 million in a single week, yet allocated only about $70k for all its youth expenses for the entire year—including compensation for the youth director and the full cost of programming. That’s a mere 3.5%. These same mosques often voice concern about empowering the youth, yet their actions continue to fall short.

In reality, the mosque sets itself on a financially unfeasible path, always playing catch-up, and often bearing an unfinished look for years due to ongoing construction. If you feel like I’m describing your mosque, you’re not alone—many mosques in the West follow this approach. But if we truly want to be effective with our resources, we must ask: Is it practical? And is it justified?

Investing in People, Not Just Places

An Imam, meanwhile, is expected to manage and lead the community, while not sponsored for a single management training seminar that would equip him with the skills to do so. For active and dedicated members, the message becomes clear: the mission has more to do with what appears in the sight of the public than with what truly impacts the public.

Examples like these are not just common, but in fact represent the better end of what we are dealing with as a society. Focusing primarily on expansion may seem like an exciting vision for the mosque’s future, but the trade-offs carry severe long-term consequences. 

Allah ﷻ says:

‘The mosques of Allah are only to be maintained by those who believe in Allah and the Last Day, establish prayer, give zakah, and fear none but Allah. It is they who are expected to be rightly guided.’ [Surah at-Tawbah;9:18]

In other words, the true maintenance of a mosque depends on the quality of the Believers behind it—those who fear Allah and strive to carry out what is most beneficial for the community. 

This brings us to the real priority: human resources. There are two areas we must rethink—how we fundraise for human resources, and how we compensate them fairly. While funds are being raised, dedicated members, employees, and workers of the mosque often remain underpaid—or worse, not paid at all. The notion that expecting compensation for work done for the mosque is shameful (‘aib) is unjustly imposed. The proper balance is this: those serving the mosque should not make extraordinary demands for compensation, while those in charge must provide sufficient funding to support them in their livelihood.

The word sufficient is key here, because too often mosque boards live comfortably—even lavishly—while imposing a so-called “sufficient” lifestyle on their dedicated employees, leaving them barely above the poverty line, if not worse. Furthermore, those in charge often fail to invest in training and resources for the very Imams and staff who serve the community, since funding is reserved almost exclusively for expansion projects. And so we come full circle: the mosque’s facilities are expected to advance, while its dedicated members are left behind.

This is not to say that no work should be done solely for the sake of Allah ﷻ. Volunteering keeps us grounded and sincere—but it is best suited for those already financially independent, like a congregant with a stable career who offers his time after work to clean the mosque or organize programs purely for Allah’s ﷻ sake.

“While funds are being raised, dedicated members, employees, and workers of the mosque often remain underpaid—or worse, not paid at all.” [PC:Masjid MABA (unsplash)]

Dedicated employees, however, should not be expected to give their all while being underpaid. Our salaf often maintained a side income for stability, and that same wisdom holds true today. Providing Imams and staff with a fair salary—while allowing them space to earn modestly on the side—is both healthier and more effective for the mosque and its mission. That same member can now choose to go above and beyond their specified hours by volunteering for the mosque—not as part of their salary, but purely for the advancement of the mosque itself.

Truth be told, everyone who is part of the mosque carries a genuine and noble intention to contribute to the larger mission of da‘wah. Rare is the case where someone gets involved with the mosque for personal gain—because in reality, there isn’t much personal gain to begin with. In this sense, it is a pleasure and an honor to witness the hard work, the blood, sweat, and tears of mosque board members, Imams, and dedicated community members at large. We are all in it ultimately for the pleasure of Allah ﷻ.

A Warning for the Future

However, that same zeal and passion for doing good can sometimes blind us to the real consequences we may be incurring for our community. If mosques continue to expand without first strengthening their core members, it is only a matter of time before they follow the path of many churches—where congregants come only once a week. Over time, that presence dwindles until the mosque becomes nothing more than a place to visit, like a museum, eventually abandoned and sold off, just as many churches have been in our own time. What is most alarming is that some of this pattern is already beginning to creep into our mosques.

On the flip side, imagine a mosque that, though not grand or extravagant, is filled to 20–30% of its capacity on a daily basis. Congregants return regularly for weekly programs that foster brotherhood and sisterhood, making the mosque a true hub of community life. It becomes a safe haven—a place where people are guided by a motivated Imam who nurtures their spirituality, supported by a well-organized team of volunteers providing meaningful Islamic programming for brothers and sisters of all ages.

Solutions: Building Stronger Mosques

To create sustainable mosques, we can:

• Prioritize Human Resources: Allocate the largest share of funds to staff such as Imams, youth directors, and secretaries before considering major construction projects.
• Provide Professional Development: Invest in leadership and management training for Imams and staff so they can lead effectively.
• Fair Compensation: Ensure mosque employees and the Imam receive fair, livable salaries that allow them to focus on serving the community without financial strain. Their standard of living should reflect the average lifestyle of the community they serve.
• Balance Between Paid and Volunteer Work: Encourage volunteers who are financially stable to contribute their time, while ensuring dedicated employees are paid for their roles.
• Measured Expansion: Only expand when daily attendance and programming consistently exceed current capacity.
• Transparent Budgeting: Clearly communicate how funds are allocated so the community understands and supports the priorities.

The Path Forward: People Over Blueprints

Each of us in a community has a role to play, and each role must be supported differently. If we make human resources the primary focus of mosque funding—particularly Imams, secretaries, youth directors, and others—we can empower these individuals, ignite their spirituality, and shape the mosque into a second home not only for its dedicated members but for the wider community. With strong and effective members in place, a larger congregation will naturally follow, along with more successful and impactful programming for the mosque.

The future of the Muslim Ummah in the West depends on how we strategize our priorities within our sacred spaces. Every year, either a new mosque opens or an existing one announces plans to expand. Alḥamdulillāh, the financial and economic standing of our communities has improved—especially with the emergence of second- and third-generation Muslims. It took us decades to reach this point. Now that we are here, we must tread carefully and strategically. It is vital that we invest in human resources, provide flexibility for our most dedicated members—such as Imams—and focus on developing Believers, not just blueprints. 

May Allah ﷻ accept the efforts of everyone striving in the path of da‘wah, forgive them and their families, and unite us all together in His Eternal Gardens.

 

Related:

– What Is An Imam Worth? A Living Wage At Least.

– Selecting Members For Masjid Boards: Ideal Muslim Leadership

The post The Expansion Trap: Why Mosques Are Struggling Despite Fundraising appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Deek reconnects with Lubna, hires a young accountant, and shares a lunch with Marco that results in a stunning surprise.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24 | Part 25

* * *

“All praise is due to Allah, Lord of the Worlds.” – Surat Al-Fatihah

An Invitation

He was on his way to the hotel when Lubna called to report that she’d filed the non-profit paperwork for the school and was scouting candidates for the board and teaching staff.

“Beautiful,” Deek said. “MashaAllah. We are going to build something amazing, inshaAllah.”

He heard the smile in Lubna’s voice. “I think you’re right. Have you found a location for the school?”

“No, but I met an exceptional real estate agent. I think she’ll be able to find what we need. Listen, you’re in charge of hiring teachers, and I wouldn’t infringe on that. I just want to ask if you’d consider Marco as the science teacher.”

“Your friend Marco? The one who can never keep a job?”

“Marco Feliciano Colón Tirado, yes.”

Lubna giggled.

“What?”

“Nothing. It sounds funny when you say it fast like that. Deek, we’re trying to run a real school here, not some scheme to do favors for our friends.”

“Hey. Marco has multiple science degrees, including in biology, physics, chemistry and I don’t know what else. He’s a genius. Could you at least review his resume and interview him? Then make whatever decision you feel is right. You have the final word.”

She sighed. “Fine. Tell your vagabond genius to contact me. And hey, big brother.”

Deek turned into the hotel driveway and parked the car. “Yeah?”

“You could come by and visit sometime. Anytime, really.”

Deek shut off the car, suddenly conscious of his breathing. He felt strangely moved. Lubna had never invited him to her home, except occasionally in Ramadan or on Eid, and those invitations had become fewer and fewer in between, because they never ended well.

Yet now it seemed she had forgiven him for a lifetime of meanness and verbal abuse. Or at least she was on the path to forgiving him. And she’d done it faster than he had any right to expect. There was no doubt which of them was the better person. It was Lubna, hands down.

“I could?”

“Yes… Hammo misses you.”

He restrained himself from laughing. “Did he say that?”

“You could come for dinner tonight. And bring Rania and the girls.”

“That’s problematic. But definitely soon, inshaAllah.”

A Terrible Miracle

After he hung up the call, he saw that Rania had finally sent a one-word reply to Deek’s question – of yesterday, for goodness sakes – about whether she had been at Jum’ah. Her reply consisted of one word: “No.”

So she’d read his mind again, mirroring what he’d heard from the Imam: Allah will take care of me. He put his head in his hand, thinking. He and Rania were connected in ways he did not understand. It was more than a marriage.

What had Imam Saleh said? This world is not sustained by wealth, but by Allah’s mercy. Whoever clings to Him, Allah provides in ways they never imagined.

Deek believed this. He’d seen it many times. He’d told the man at the gym how he and his family had fled Iraq in the middle of the night, and now he found himself thinking of the event that forced their flight. It was a terrible yet wondrous miracle that had happened to his father. This event, more than anything, had shaped his father’s personality and steered the course of his life. Lubna had been very small when it happened, and the truth had been kept from her. Deek wondered if she deserved to know.

He rubbed his cheeks vigorously with both hands. He didn’t want to think about these things. He had a lot to do.

Upstairs in his hotel room he made wudu’, changed into jeans and the old t-shirt he’d left home with, and prayed. Then he called Zakariyya Abdul-Ghani, the young accountant Imam Saleh had told him about. Zakariyya, who sounded young, said he could see Deek next week.

“I don’t usually work on weekends,” the accountant pointed out.

Deek explained that his business was urgent, and insisted on a meeting that very day, and the young man agreed, though he didn’t sound excited about it.

Deek made himself a sandwich with sourdough bread, albacore tuna, mustard and provolone cheese. He ate it quickly while surveying the financial markets on his computer, then opened the backpack with the cash, stuffed a few packets into his pockets, and headed out to meet Zakariyya.

Beneath the Flight Path

The accountant’s office was on the second floor of a low-rise building near the airport, its stucco walls sun-faded and the sign out front half missing. Inside, the narrow waiting area smelled faintly of printer toner and cardamom tea.

The young man himself rose from behind a desk when Deek entered. He was thin to the point of fragility, mahogany-skinned, a neatly trimmed beard, and large brown eyes that reminded Deek of a deer taking its first hesitant steps through the woods. His suit fit him awkwardly, as if it had been bought with ambition rather than cash.

“Mr. Saghir?” he said, extending a hand. “I’m Zakariyya. Please, have a seat. Would you like some tea?”

Deek sat. “No, but thank you. Are you Pakistani?”

“My family are Indian Muslims from Bihar state. But I was born in Los Angeles.” The boy’s voice was so soft Deek had to lean forward in his chair to hear. He couldn’t help noticing the accountant’s youth—he looked barely out of college—but when Zakariyya began talking about finances, the uncertainty fell away. His voice became steady, deliberate, precise.

“You said by email that you need help handling medical disbursements,” Zakariyya said. “That’s simple enough. We can open a dedicated account in your name, with me as an authorized manager but not a signer. You’ll transfer funds into it as needed, and I’ll process payments directly to hospitals or doctors once you approve the invoices. Everything will be logged and reconciled monthly. You’ll have full visibility online.”

Deek nodded, impressed despite himself. “You sound like you’ve done this before.”

A faint smile touched the young man’s lips. “Masjid Madinah is one of my clients. I handle their payroll and donations. I also do work for a few small medical practices, so I’m familiar with billing systems. I can have you set up by the middle of next week.”

“I need it set up by Monday morning.”

Zakariyya sat back in his chair and smiled uncertainly. “I have other clients. I have to be fair to them.”

At that moment a roaring sound began overhead. It increased in volume until the windows rattled in their frames. It was the loudest sound Deek had heard in a long time, and it flashed him back to his youth in Baghdad, and the occasional explosions that had rocked the city. When the sound passed, he realized to his shame that he had come off the chair and dropped to one knee. He stood, brushing imaginary dust from his knees.

Zakariyya cleared his throat awkwardly. “I’m sorry. We’re beneath the airport flight path. How about if I bring you that tea now?”

Deek nodded. “Yes, thanks.”

A Pop Quiz

While Zakariyya was gone, Deek steadied himself. He was deeply embarrassed. He looked around the small office. A tall bookshelf was crammed with books on financial management and accounting, but there were also books on history and philosophy. On the top shelf there were two different translations of the Quran, and one in Arabic only. Zakariyya’s diplomas and certifications hung on the wall behind him and Deek saw to his surprise that the young man had a B.A. in Economics, a B.S. in Computer Science and an M.S. in Accounting.

Zakariyya returned with the tea. The fragrance of cardamom filled the small office.

The teacup was hot in Deek’s hand. “You have a master’s degree? How old are you?”

Zakariyya smiled. “I’m twenty seven. I look younger.”

“Out of curiosity, do you know anything about cryptocurrency?”

The accountant nodded. “I did a minor in blockchain technology. The course had just been introduced. I’ve tried to stay up to date on the development of decentralized finance, layer 1s and 2s, NFTs, stablecoins, tokenized assets and so on. But I’m not an expert.”

Again Deek was impressed. Not many people outside the crypto world could have named those technologies. “Have you heard of a family office?”

Zakariyya blinked. “I feel like I’m back in school getting a pop quiz. Yes, of course. It’s the structure high-net-worth families use to manage everything in-house. Why do you ask?”

Deek sipped his tea. “Just wondering. It’s something I heard about. Listen, I’m going to give it to you straight.”

“Okay.”

Setting the teacup down, Deek pulled a banded wad of cash out of his pocket and set it on the desk in front of Zakariyya. “If you and I are going to work together, I need you to prioritize my business. Hire someone to help with the other clients if you need to, but I want you personally handling my business. That – “ he pointed to the stack of cash – “is ten thousand dollars. That’s not an advance. It’s an incentive for taking me on as a client. This – “ He pulled another stack of $10,000 out of his pocket and set it beside the first – “is an advance. I’m telling you what my needs are. If you do well with this medical disbursement, I could have more work for you. But I must be first priority, and I will pay for that privilege. If you don’t feel comfortable with this, that’s fine. I can find someone else.”

Zakariyya’s eyes had widened slightly. He nodded slowly. “I understand. Yes, okay. I’ll have it set up for you by Monday morning.”

“MashaAllah,” Deek said. “Excellent.”

They discussed a few details—security protocols, recordkeeping, how large transfers should be handled—then another plane thundered overhead. The window rattled again, and this time Deek resisted the urge to duck.

Child to Adult

Over the next few days, Deek stayed busy, partly to distract himself from his own thoughts. His mind kept wandering inexplicably to the tragedies that had befallen his family, and other families they had known, in Iraq. As well, he found himself haunted by the dream he’d had of the planet Rust. Was this a side effect of the Namer’s potion, that his dreams took on increased clarity and weight, and persisted like the bitter aftertaste of black coffee? It was as if he’d left some part of himself stranded among those giants, forever separated from his family by the vast, black gulf of space.

He made a number of calls and held a few meetings to arrange the surprise he had in mind for brother Faraz.

* * *

Zakariyya did indeed have the medical payments operation up and running by Monday morning, and Deek – not wanting to hear more of Dr. Rana’s effusive praise – emailed Dr. Rana to inform him.

* * *

Dr. Zuhair, the rich and handsome Egyptian engineer who was the board president at Masjid Umar, called him.

“I mentioned your offer to the board,” he said. “They feel I was hasty in rejecting it. They wish to accept your offer of a one million dollar donation. You will be granted a seat on the board, and Dr. Ajeeb will be fired, as you stipulated.”

Deek was shocked. “You told me that was impossible, that it was a violation of your integrity.”

“I still feel that way. But I was outvoted.”

“Well… I don’t want that anymore. I will donate a quarter million for now, but I don’t want a seat on the board, as I have enough on my plate already. And I don’t want you to fire Dr. Ajeeb. In fact I insist that you do not. That was a petty and vindictive demand on my part.”

“SubhanAllah. I am speechless. It’s as if you have grown from child to adult in two weeks.”

The condescending remark irritated Deek, but he let it pass. “My accountant, Zakariyya Abdul-Ghani, will arrange a cashier’s check or wire transfer, and will need a receipt for tax purposes. I’ll have him contact you.”

* * *

Public Enemy

He managed to convince Amira to have lunch with him. She was reserved, not her usual quirky, affectionate self. She wore a t-shirt that said, “FIGHT THE POWER.” Beneath it was a logo featuring a black and red flag, and a red rose.

Pointing to it, Deek said, “I didn’t know any young people still listened to Public Enemy.”

“Public who? This is a Rose City Antifa shirt.”

“A what?”

Amira laughed – the first time she’d done so during their meeting that day – and Deek smiled.

“Miri, honey,” he said. “Could you ask your mom to please call me?”

The laughter disappeared. Amira lapsed into silence, and on that somber note Deek drove her home and dropped her off. As he stopped in front of the house, he saw that the side gate and fence had been removed, and a variety of construction equipment was parked in the driveway. From the rear of the house, he thought he could hear the sounds of hammering, and the buzz of a wood saw.

“What’s going on? What is all this?”

Amira opened her mouth to speak, closed it, then shrugged and said, “Mom’s doing some work.” With that she exited the car and strolled into the house.

The Park Lunch

Marco called him out of the blue on Wednesday. “Lunch is on me,” he said, in that tone that dared Deek to argue.

“You sure?”

“Yeah, man. I got a spot.”

Deek drove to the rough end of town where Marco lived, parking a few doors down from a corner store with a faded sign that read Al-Quds Market. The owner, an elderly Palestinian in a gray kufi, waved from behind the counter. The place didn’t sell liquor—unique in this part of Fresno—and for that reason, it was a minor miracle of survival. Its shelves were stacked with pastries, candy bars, canned beans, and a glass deli case full of foil-wrapped meals that looked like they’d been made that morning in someone’s kitchen.

“Pick what you want,” Marco said, opening the deli case. “It’s all good.”

Deek glanced over the options: lasagna, chicken and rice, something that looked like grape leaves, and several containers of what appeared to be macaroni with tuna and mayonnaise.

“Two of those,” Marco told the old man, slapping a few crumpled bills on the counter. A few minutes later they left with the food and a couple of bottled teas.

They walked two blocks to a small park wedged between a laundromat and an auto repair yard. The grass was patchy, the benches scarred with initials and half-burned by cigarettes. A pair of homeless men slept under the shade of a fig tree, and a thin woman paced near the trash cans, mumbling to herself.

They sat on a bench with peeling paint. The park smelled of marijuana smoke and urine. Oblivious, Marco popped open his container and started eating. “Best five dollar meal in Fresno,” he said through a mouthful.

Deek smiled. The mac n’ tuna was actually quite good, with chopped black olives and a flavor of spicy mustard. Every now and then he glanced around the park, watching a shirtless man argue with a trash can, and his hand drifted absently to the knife sheath at his hip.

No Walking Away

“I’ve been doing a lot of gigs,” Marco said finally. “The new trumpet sounds like joy with butter on top.”

“That’s great, man.” The news made Deek genuinely happy. “I’ve been busy too. I’m founding an Islamic school.”

Marco looked up, eyebrows raised. “Seriously?”

“Yes. I think you’d be a good candidate for science teacher. Lubna’s the hiring manager. You want to put together a resume and call her?”

Marco stopped chewing. “Deek, don’t do that. I don’t need charity.”

Deek exhaled noisily, exasperated. “How is it charity? If anything you’re overqualified. And I have a feeling you’d be good with the kids.”

“It might be fun to be a teacher,” Marco mused. “When would it start?”

“Next school year. But if you take the job, you’d have to commit. No half measures. No walking away.”

Marco stared at the ground for a moment, fork idle in his hand. “Let me think about it.”

Deek nodded, watching a plane drift high above, glinting in the sunlight. “That’s all I ask.”

They finished the meal in companionable silence, the noise of the street rising around them — traffic, a distant siren, the crackle of a wrapper caught in the wind.

A Surprise

When the meal was finished, Marco said, “I have a surprise for you.”

“Okay. Is it my birthday and someone didn’t tell me?”

Marco sat up straight, cleared his throat, then began to recite in nearly perfect Arabic:

Aoothoo billahi min ash-shaytan ir-rajeem,
Bismillah ir-Rahman ir-Raheem,
Alhamdulillahi rabbil-aalameen…

He went on to recite all of Surat Al-Fatihah, the opening chapter of the Quran. His voice was strong and melodic, hypnotizing in fact, and although his accent wasn’t perfect – he couldn’t quite get the “dha” in “dhaalleen” – it was very good.

When he was done, Deek shot his fists into the air and said, “Allahu Akbar! That was amazing.”

“You’ve been saying you wanted to hear me recite the Quran.”

“It was fantastic. But… why now?”

In response, Marco recited the shahadah, the Islamic testimony of faith. Again, his Arabic was nearly perfect. As he did so, Deek felt goosebumps break out on his arms.

“So… you’re Muslim now?”

Marco smiled. “Obviously.”

Deek leaped up, grabbed Marco around the waist and lifted him off the bench and into the air. Marco laughed and demanded to be put down.

Deek set his friend on his feet. “Why now?” he repeated. “I’ve known you all your life. You’ve always been someone who knows everything but believes in nothing.”

“You’re wrong. I believe in you. I saw what you were like when you were poor, and I’ve seen what you’re like now that you’re rich, and I’ve realized that whatever life throws at you, you just get better. Part of that is because you’re an extraordinary human being, but I think part of it is the guidance of your faith. And I want that. I need it. Badly.”

Tears came to Deek’s eyes. Damn Namer’s potion. He sat heavily on the bench and covered his face with his hands. From the auto repair shop, he heard the sharp, stuttering “rat-tat-tat-tat… whirrrrr—clack” of an impact wrench removing the lug nuts from someone’s tires. A breeze gusted, and the leaves of the fig tree beside him rustled. A homeless man asked for change, and Deek looked up to see Marco give the man a dollar. The sun was bright overhead, but not hot. It was all beautiful.

***

Come back next week for Part 27 inshaAllah

 

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

Day Of The Dogs, Part 1 – Tiny Ripples Of Hope

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

 

The post Moonshot [Part 26] – Beneath The Flight Path appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

It was the 27th day of Ramadan. After Fajr, it felt like any other day — ordinary, quiet — until the evening, when everything changed.

We hear about the passing of brothers and sisters in Islam, but losing someone close to you is different; most people aren’t prepared for it. That day replays in my mind, minute by minute. Twenty minutes before maghrib, I ran into my mother’s room, trying to wake her. My wife began CPR until help arrived, and we rushed to the hospital. I stood on the other side of the words we hear in movies: “We tried everything we could, but unfortunately, your mother has passed away.” I collapsed like a child, and in that moment, I accepted that my life would never be the same.

The Silence After the Burial

The first few days after my mother’s passing moved quickly. From the ghusl, the janazah, the burial, the steady stream of family and community who surrounded us with prayers, food, and support. In many ways, those early days carried me on autopilot. The structure of our faith and the presence of loved ones softened the initial blow. But then comes the question: what happens next?

“The stillness of a chair, the absence of a voice, the memories that return uninvited, sharp and vivid. That silence speaks volumes, but only to those who live inside it. No one else can truly feel that particular pain, because it belongs uniquely to you.” [PC: Silvestri Matteo (unsplash)]

Over the following week or two, people continued to check in: friends, relatives, colleagues, and even people we haven’t spoken to in years. They called, they visited, and they brought meals. Their kindness meant more than words could capture. Yet, slowly, life began to call them back to their routines. People moved on, and the days got colder. What they couldn’t see and what no one can truly enter into is the quietness of the home after everyone leaves. The silence that echoes through rooms once filled with laughter or simple conversation. The emptiness of a chair, the absence of a voice, the memories that return uninvited, sharp and vivid. That silence speaks volumes, but only to those who live inside it. No one else can truly feel that particular pain, because it belongs uniquely to you.

In those moments, a realization sets in: nothing can really prepare us for loss. No book, no story, no imagined scenario. Grief strips away our illusions of control and reminds us how fragile we are. We are vulnerable, we are temporary, and we are completely dependent. In that raw state, one truth becomes undeniable — Allah is in control of everything. He is Al-Ḥayy (The Ever-Living), while we are travelers destined to return to Him.

Learning the Phrase “Innā lillāhi wa innā ilayhi rājiʿūn”

We grow up hearing the phrase: Innā lillāhi wa innā ilayhi rājiʿūn. “Indeed, to Allah we belong, and to Him we shall return.” It is said almost automatically when we hear of someone’s passing or any kind of hardship. But what does it really mean?

The Prophet ﷺ taught us that when a calamity strikes and a believer says these words sincerely along with the duʿāʾ, “Allāhumma ajirnī fī muṣībatī, wa akhlif lī khayran minhā” — Allah promises to reward that person and to replace their loss with something better. [Sahih Muslim]

On paper, it is easy to read. But when the loss is someone so close: a parent, a sibling, a spouse, or a child, the words carry a weight that shakes your very being. This isn’t just “a calamity.” This is someone you saw every day, shared meals with, traveled with, laughed with, and someone who knew you almost as well as you know yourself. Suddenly they’re gone. The phone calls that once came so naturally now go unanswered. The little routines that felt permanent are no longer possible. And the question creeps in: Where did they go?

The truth is, they were never truly ours to begin with. They belonged to Allah . He is the One Who gave them life, sustained them, and protected them. We were simply entrusted with their presence for a time. Like a borrowed pen at school, which you use for a while, but eventually it must be returned to its rightful owner. The difference is, this “pen” was your whole world, your comfort, your love. And yet, even they must return to the One Who created them.

This realization is painful, but it is also freeing. Innā lillāhi wa innā ilayhi rājiʿūn becomes more than words. It becomes a lens through which we see the reality of life, loss, and our ultimate return. We have returned the loved one to their rightful owner, and Allah is the best of caretakers.

What Should We Expect?

• Time doesn’t heal all wounds. People often say, “time heals everything,” but that isn’t true. Time allows you to accept reality, but it does not erase the wound. Nothing truly heals except recognizing the essence of life — that this world is temporary and the real life is the eternal one. Your loved one is not lost; they are simply ahead of you on the journey, and you will follow when Allah wills.

• You will feel lonely. Loneliness can feel heavy, but it can also be a gift. The Prophet ﷺ himself would retreat to Mount Ḥirāʾ in solitude before revelation. Use your moments of loneliness to turn back to Allah , to speak to Him , and to find strength in His Company. Going on hikes, walks, and looking at the creation of Allah while talking to Allah will help this feeling.

• Your heart will feel uneasy. Grief doesn’t move in a straight line. There will be days that feel normal, and then suddenly the weight returns. In those moments, hold fast to the promise of Allah: “Verily, in the remembrance of Allah do hearts find rest” [Surah Ar-Ra’ad; 13:28]. Fill those pauses with dhikr, with prayer, with the Qur’an — and you will find the unease gently softened.

• You will cry. Tears will come — and they should. Crying is not a weakness. It is mercy. The Prophet ﷺ himself cried at the loss of his loved ones. When his son Ibrāhīm passed away, tears flowed from his eyes. When asked about it, he said: “The eyes shed tears and the heart grieves, but we do not say except that which pleases our Lord.” [Bukhārī and Muslim] Let your tears flow, and let them turn into duʿāʾ for the one you have lost.

What Shouldn’t We Expect?

• Don’t expect the pain to vanish. Grief doesn’t disappear one day. It softens, it changes shape, but it never fully leaves. The absence of someone you loved will always be felt, and that’s a sign of the bond Allah placed between you.

• Don’t expect others to fully understand. Family, friends, and community may offer comfort, but they can never truly feel your exact loss. Each grief is unique. Expecting others to “get it” in the same way you do will only deepen the hurt. Instead, lean on Allah , the One who knows what is in every heart. This is your test and may not be theirs.

• Don’t expect the world to pause. For you, life has changed forever. For others, it continues as normal. People will move on, routines will resume, and calls will slow. This is natural. It doesn’t mean your loved one is forgotten, but it means you must carry their memory in your own way. Don’t have high expectations even from your closest friends and family.

• Don’t expect faith to erase sadness. Sometimes we imagine that strong faith means we shouldn’t feel broken. “I pray so I should be strong”. Yaʿqūb wept until his eyes turned white from sorrow over Yūsuf . Our faith isn’t as strong as Yaʿqūb , but even at that level, we learn that strong faith doesn’t remove sadness; it gives you the strength to carry it with patience and hope.

How Do We Prepare for Grief?

There is no manual for grief, no checklist that makes the pain easy to manage. But there are steps we can take to prepare our hearts and our families for the reality of loss.

Here are a few reflections that may help:

• Study the stories of the Prophets and Companions. Allah tells us: “Indeed, in their stories there is a lesson for those of understanding.” [Surah Yusuf; 12:111] We spend so much energy teaching ourselves and our children how to live in comfort and “succeed” in this world, but the greatest people who ever lived, the Prophets and Companions, endured the greatest struggles. Their trials drew them closer to Allah and became timeless examples for us. While we don’t ask to be tested, when we are, their lives remind us how to respond with patience, resilience, and trust in Allah .
• Teach your children who Allah is. The Prophet ﷺ said: “Be mindful of Allah, and He will protect you. Be mindful of Allah, and you will find Him before you… If you ask, ask of Allah; and if you seek help, seek help from Allah.” [Tirmidhī] From a young age, connect your children’s hearts to Allah through love. Let them know that even if the world is against them, they are never alone if Allah is with them. When a loved one leaves, they have returned to Allah . They may no longer be here, but Allah is always with you.
• Visit the graveyard often. The Prophet ﷺ said: “I had forbidden you to visit the graves, but now you may visit them, for indeed they remind you of the Hereafter.” [Muslim] Going only after a loved one passes can feel overwhelming, almost unbearable. But making it a habit beforehand softens the heart and normalizes the reality of death. The graveyard is not an end, but a resting place until the day that truly matters.
• Speak about the Hereafter openly. Allah says: “And this worldly life is nothing but diversion and amusement. And indeed, the home of the Hereafter — that is the [eternal] life, if only they knew.” [Surah Al-‘Ankabut; 29:64] Too often, we focus only on worldly success while neglecting to talk about the akhirah. Make it normal in your home to speak about the deeds that prepare us for eternal life. Let these conversations shape your family’s mindset and priorities. In the world that we live in, these conversations only come when reality strikes.
• Leave a legacy of good deeds. The Prophet ﷺ said: “When a person dies, his deeds come to an end except for three: ongoing charity, beneficial knowledge, or a righteous child who prays for him.” [Muslim] Show your children the good you do for your parents and grandparents. When your time comes, they will continue that chain of goodness. This is a mercy from Allah that it benefits the one who has passed and comforts the loved ones left behind, knowing their duʿāʾ still reaches their family member in the grave, and will help them in their most difficult times.
• Seek support from others. Grief can feel isolating, but Islam encourages leaning on community. The Prophet ﷺ said: “The example of the believers in their mutual love, mercy, and compassion is that of one body: when any part of it suffers, the whole body responds with wakefulness and fever.” [Bukhārī and Muslim] Reach out to trusted family, friends, or teachers when the burden feels heavy. Sharing your feelings is not a weakness; it’s part of healing, and it allows others to fulfill their duty of compassion toward you.

Grief is something we do not talk about often enough. Having faith is something we should be so thankful for. We are able to completely rely upon Allah , and with Him we are able to continue to live this life. Today we grieve, and tomorrow people might grieve for us. We ask Allah to forgive us for our shortcomings and allow the pain that we go through inside as a means of preparing to meet Him. May Allah allow us to be united with our loved ones in Paradise. Ameen.

 

Related:

– Death The Greatest Teacher: Three Life-Lessons From The Child I Lost

– Sharing Grief: A 10 Point Primer On Condolence

The post Unheard, Unspoken: The Secret Side Of Grief appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Once close partners against the U.S. occupation, Pakistan and Afghanistan’s Taliban government now trade accusations of betrayal, revealing deeper crises of mistrust, militarism, and faith across the Muslim world’s most volatile border.

October 2025

 

Strained Relations Four Years After Taliban Takeover

Four years after a Taliban conquest of Afghanistan widely welcomed in Pakistan, relations between the two neighbors have struck a low as each accuses the other of supporting its insurgency, reaching a nadir this week with skirmishes on the border.

Taliban soldiers

Where the Taliban emirate accused Pakistan of supporting a Daesh underground, Pakistan’s military-led coalition regime has accused Afghanistan of supporting insurgents, including a namesake insurgency in northwest Pakistan’s Pashtun borderland. The more pressing insurgency in Pakistan stems neither from Afghan malfeasance, as Islamabad claims, nor is it an entirely domestic affair, as Kabul counters.

Buried among the rhetoric, blame-trading, and saber-rattling are several inconvenient truths that neither regime nor its cheerleaders seems inclined to acknowledge, but which are critical to factor into any solution.

Contrasting Claims and Misrepresentations

Pakistani accusers rightly note that insurgent leaders Nur-Wali Asim of the Mahsud clan and Gul Bahadur of the Wazir clan have received refuge in Afghanistan, and that attacks picked up pace since the Taliban return to Kabul in 2021. Afghan rejoinders rightly point out that the roots of Pakistan’s crisis are domestic and largely self-inflicted: a consistently militaristic policy in the borderland has failed for years regardless of insurgent leaders’ whereabouts, while none of Afghanistan’s other neighbors have faced such a problem despite their own insurgents’ “refuge” in the emirate.

The most extreme claims on either side resort to obfuscation. On one hand are exaggerated Taliban claims of Pakistani complicity in the American occupation of Afghanistan, which ignore the greater role of other states —especially Pakistan’s archrival India, a cheerleader of the occupation right to and beyond its end— and the respite that successive Pakistani regimes gave despite considerable American irritation. On the other hand are nationalistic claims, especially loud among supporters of the Pakistani military, that claim primordial Afghan hatred, conspiracy, and ingratitude.

Historical Ironies and Shifting Allegiances

The latter claim contributed to an atmosphere where thousands of Afghans have been callously and humiliatingly uprooted from decades-long refuge. Ironically, this claim is itself a misdirected rejoinder to longstanding claims by the preceding, American-installed government of Afghanistan, which claimed in ethnicized terms that the Taliban were merely a cat’s paw of scheming “Punjabi” Pakistanis. By painting opponents as Pakistani puppets, the Afghan regimes of 2001–21 disingenuously portrayed their own utter dependency on a foreign invasion as a sort of nationalist virtue against their neighbor’s meddling.

The claim that Pakistan’s insurgency has accelerated since 2021 misses the point that for much of the prior fifteen years, its deceleration had been assisted through Taliban mediation, which persuaded many such militants to help fight the United States in Afghanistan rather than fight the Pakistani government. This stance was particularly emphasized by the Haqqanis, who have had a decades-long policy of support for Pakistan as far afield as Kashmir.

Nor was it an exclusively Taliban stance: in 2004–05, Pakistani corps commander Safdar Hussain, who led the first campaigns in northwest Pakistan against Wazir and Mahsud insurgents, urged them to abandon revolt against Islamabad and focus on jihad against the Americans. An unamused United States repeatedly attacked deals between the military and the insurgents; for example, Sirajuddin Haqqani mediated at Miranshah between Bahadur and the military in 2006, only for American airstrikes to sabotage the agreement.

The Rise of New Militants

Qari Saifullah Akhtar

This prompted a number of Pakistani militants to disavow the Pakistani regime and take up arms. Many were longstanding fighters who felt betrayed by the state that had once backed them, and ignored the pleas of such scholars as the Usmani brothers, Muftis Taqi and Rafi, to stand down.

One such militant was Saifullah Akhtar, whom Rafi had known in the 1980s and complimented in a subsequent 1990s book that also saluted the Taliban movement; his newfound hostility to a regime within whose military he had significant contacts was particularly dangerous, yet he was eventually persuaded to leave Pakistan and fight alongside the Taliban in Afghanistan, where he was killed.

A Balancing Act Between Foes and Allies

The modus vivendi that the Taliban adopted was to maintain ties with both sides of the Pakistan war, the army and the insurgency, in a manner similar to how the Pakistani military kept links with both sides of the Afghan war, the United States and the Taliban. Rejecting insurgency against Pakistan, on numerous occasions, Taliban mediation redirected Pakistani insurgents against the United States.

A number of secondary Taliban commanders did sympathize with the Pakistani insurgency against a state they saw as having betrayed them: a sentiment that no doubt retains currency in the rank-and-file. But this was always an informal minority: Sirajuddin, whose uncles Khalilur-Rahman Ahmad and Ibrahim Umari played a key role in coordination with Pakistani officers, also urged such Pakistani counterparts as Bahadur to focus their attention on the Americans in Afghanistan.

This preceded a major turning point in 2014, during a major campaign by the Pakistani army, yet this success relied in part on also internecine disputes among the insurgents after the elimination of a series of leaders.

A major factor was the emergence of Daesh, to which large parts of the insurgency defected. Although it opposed both rival governments in Islamabad and Kabul, Daesh’s principal target was the Taliban, whom it accused of inauthenticity and—ironically given today’s circumstances—servitude to Pakistan. The conflict with Daesh forced the Taliban to draw closer to Pakistani insurgents, such as Bahadur and Mahsud preacher Nur-Wali Asim, as a counterweight.

Reform Efforts Under Imran Khan

Imran Khan

A major factor in draining the insurgency was the major attempts at reform made by Imran Khan’s Insaf Party, which assumed Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa’s provincial government. Khan had drawn support in large part from his opposition to the American “war on terror” and Pakistani acquiescence therein: by all accounts, the Insaf government in Khyber-Pakhtunkhwa was a major improvement, and retains major support in the province to this day.

It also tried to incorporate the historically autonomous, but increasingly militarized, Waziristan borderland under its control, which Nur-Wali opposed as this approach promised to solve many of the grievances on which he drew.

Nur-Wali’s Hardline Stance

Though Nur-Wali reorganized the insurgency and, to an extent, its conduct, he refused to negotiate, painting his fight as part of a historical Mahsud resistance against British colonialism and a Pakistani state seen as its American-backed heir. In fact, the Mahsuds who fiercely fought Britain had largely supported Pakistan right up to the 2004 incursion in Waziristan—a product not of primordial Pakistani illegitimacy but rather involvement in the much more recent American war on terror. This stance was far harsher than that of the Taliban and even affiliated insurgents like Bahadur, and has precluded meaningful negotiations.

Insurgencies and Unneighborly Behavior

The Pakistani claim that the Taliban’s return to power in 2021 coincided with a sharp uptick in attacks within Pakistan ignores the fact that the previous decade’s decline owed in part to repeated Taliban mediation on Islamabad’s behalf. On the other hand, as I pointed out at the time, Taliban wariness of Daesh meant that they cultivated ties with Pakistani insurgents: famously, upon capturing Kabul, they executed Daesh leader Ziaul-Haq Zia but released the Pakistani insurgent leader Faqir Mohammad.

Yet this was not an inherently anti-Pakistan move: Faqir had been imprisoned by the previous Afghan regime precisely because he was seen as more amenable to negotiations with Islamabad, and Sirajuddin Haqqani, now Taliban interior minister, immediately held negotiations between Imran’s Pakistani government, including the military represented by spymaster Faiz Hameed, and militants like Bahadur.

Post-Imran Escalation and Missteps

Whether this would have succeeded is unknown—certainly some militants continued to snipe away at Pakistan regardless and might have never reconciled—but the 2022 coup that ousted Imran, and quickly courted relations with an anti-Taliban United States, escalating not through targeting insurgent units in Pakistan but bombing across the Afghan border—the sort of unilateral action that was bound to raise Taliban hackles. The Pakistani military, led by Asim Munir, has made a point of theatrical escalation with Kabul—yet its initial focus was not the Pakistani insurgency, which gained ground over 2023, but crushing Imran’s still-influential party through major, occasionally bloody, suppression and electoral manipulation.

Deportations and Counterproductive Policy

The response toward the insurgency has similarly been unimpressive and counterproductive to its stated aims, particularly the mass deportation of Afghans that began in autumn 2023. This was a political decision that aimed to give the impression of vigilance by whipping up anti-Afghan sentiments; in its rivalry with the Insaf party, the military establishment and its many hangers-on have portrayed both Taliban and Afghans broadly as scheming confederates of Imran in a sort of fifth column. This provoked widespread hostility among affected communities in the borderland.

It was also practically counterproductive: the mass deportations of Afghans across the border logistically confounded the task that Pakistan demanded of the Taliban, to intercept Pakistani insurgents. This was further complicated by the fact that Daesh remained an underground threat, assassinating many Taliban officials, fighters, and leaders, including Sirajuddin’s uncle Khalilur-Rahman, governor-general Daud Muzamil, and corps commander Hamdullah Mukhlis. With their own challenges, the Taliban are hardly in a position to solve Pakistan’s largely self-inflicted woes.

Half-Hearted Cooperation and Growing Misgivings

This does not, however, remove the fact that Taliban cooperation has been at best half-hearted. In part, this stems from its reluctance to alienate non-Daesh militants, who have, in fact, flared up in indignation whenever the emirate has tried to relocate them away from the Pakistani border. In part, it stems from misgivings toward a confrontational Pakistani military bent on scapegoating Afghanistan for all internal challenges. It also stems from an insistence that the Pakistani insurgency is a primarily internal issue: after all, the Taliban also hosts opposition militants from other countries, none of which have caused anywhere near the amount of trouble as the Pakistani insurgents. To this extent, the argument made by both Khan and the Taliban that the Pakistani insurgency stems from internal Pakistani grievances holds truth.

Parallel Rejections and Border Tensions

Yet if the Pakistani military has been aggressive, Taliban denials ring irrelevant if not hollow. The indignation the emirate evinced when Islamabad flirted with exiled critics is hardly more than that in Pakistan when it sees the likes of Nur-Wali given deferential treatment in Afghanistan. The rejectionism that Nur-Wali directs toward Islamabad is similar to that which Daesh directs toward Kabul. No state, Pakistan or others, tolerates repeated cross-border raids of the type the Taliban are unwilling to interdict for reasons more of political expediency than principle.

Structural Causes and Continuing Violence

On the other hand, the emirate’s ability to control the border has been severely circumscribed by such clumsy and destructive policies as the mass deportations of Afghans. The Taliban spent over a decade, even while fighting a guerrilla war against the United States, mediating with the Pakistani insurgency on behalf of the same military that now scapegoats it.

The Pakistani war is not a product of Taliban inaction: even if the Taliban surrendered every Pakistani insurgent leader from Afghan territory, the twenty-year militarization, social upheaval, and political disputes that exacerbated the war remain. Some twenty senior insurgent leaders have been killed, almost on a yearly basis, since the Waziristan conflict broke out in the mid-2000s, and there is little reason to suppose that the capture or killing of Nur-Wali or Bahadur would make a long-term difference without addressing issues in an approach that the military of late has flatly shunned. Bombing Kabul in pursuit of Nur-Wali might give some short-term catharsis and a few bragging rights, but it only threatens to exacerbate mistrust without addressing these underlying issues.

When these obvious points are raised, however, a military increasingly intolerant of contradiction lashes out.

Forward Steps and Barriers

The solution is not as complicated as it might seem. Both Pakistan and Afghanistan’s insurgents stem from the same geographic stretch, the border highlands, which both states have long struggled to control. The simplest task is, in military terms, joint security collaboration against both Afghan and Pakistani insurgents, and in sociopolitical terms, an improved and more accountable governance. A sensible policy would see Afghanistan and Pakistan cooperate on this region rather than trade mostly spurious accusations and recriminations.

The barrier to such commonsense is the exponential mutual mistrust, related to the two neighbors’ addiction to alliances that have only ever escalated the problem—for Taliban with Pakistani insurgents who are airily whitewashed as “good Muslims” regardless of the number of Muslims their war victimizes; and for Pakistan’s military with a United States that it has shamelessly courted since 2022, partly pursuant to its feud with Imran, regardless of the sociopolitical costs it brings to the country.

It is easier to scapegoat a neighbor through selectively remembered or distorted history rather than introspect and apply to them the same standards sought in one’s own country: so much for Muslim neighbors in the “Islamic emirate” and the “Islamic nuclear power.”

Related:

On the Pakistan-India Dangerous Escalation

Afghanistan’s Experiment: Progress and Peril Under Taliban Rule

 

 

The post Allies In War, Enemies In Peace: The Unraveling Of Pakistan–Taliban Relations appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

India, with over 200 million Muslims, hosts the third-largest Muslim population globally. Despite this, the country’s banking system has largely failed to cater to the community’s specific financial needs. This exclusion isn’t due to a lack of access or equal opportunity, but stems from significant theological differences between Islamic finance principles and the conventional banking system.

Socio-Economic Disparities

The Sachar Committee Report (2006) highlighted the socio-economic backwardness of Muslims in India. Despite constituting about 14% of the population, Muslims held only 7.4% of bank deposits and received just 4.7% of bank credit. This disparity limits their ability to access institutional credit for significant endeavors, such as starting businesses or pursuing higher education, thereby affecting their representation in business and wealth accumulation.

A 2015 analysis by the ET Intelligence Group of the BSE 500 companies further revealed that Muslim representation in director and top executive positions was a mere 2.67%, indicating a significant underrepresentation in corporate leadership.

Further, Muslims hold only 9.2% of gold assets, compared to 31% held by Hindu high castes and 39% by OBCs, highlighting their limited access to collateral for financial transactions.

Theological Foundations of Islamic Finance

Islamic finance is grounded in principles that promote justice, welfare, and ethical economic practices. Central to these principles is the prohibition of ‘riba’ (interest), as it is considered exploitative and unjust.

“Those who consume interest cannot stand [on the Day of Resurrection] except as one stands who is being beaten by Satan into insanity. That is because they say, “Trade is [just] like interest.” But Allah has permitted trade and has forbidden interest. So whoever has received an admonition from his Lord and desists may have what is past, and his affair rests with Allah. But whoever returns to [dealing in interest or usury] – those are the companions of the Fire; they will abide eternally therein.” [Surah Al-Baqarah: 2;275]

“O you who have believed, do not consume usury, doubled and multiplied, but fear Allah that you may be successful.” [Surah ‘Ali-Imran: 3;130]

Instead, Islamic finance encourages (1) asset-backed transactions:

Narrated by Hakim b. Hizam :  “I asked Messenger of Allah , I said: ‘A man came to me asking to buy something that I did not have. Can I buy it from the market for him and then give it to him?’ He said: ‘Do not sell what is not with you.'” [Jami` at-Tirmidhi 1232]

(2) profit and loss sharing:

Narrated ‘Urwah Al-Bariqi: “The Messenger of Allah gave me on Dinar to purchase a sheep for him. So I purchased two sheeps for him, and I sold one of them for a Dinar. So I returned with the sheep and the Dinar to the Prophet , and I mentioned what had happened and he said: ‘May Allah bless you in your business dealings.’ After that we went to Kunasah in Al-Kufah, and he made tremendous profits. He was among the wealthiest of the people in Al-Kufah.” [Jami` at-Tirmidhi 1258],

and (3) joint ventures, (4) fostering shared responsibility, and (5) economic inclusion.

Wealth in Islam is viewed as a means to promote circulation and mutual support,

Abu Huraira reported Allah’s Messenger ﷺ as saying: “Charity does not decrease wealth, no one forgives another except that Allah increases his honor, and no one humbles himself for the sake of Allah except that Allah raises his status.” [Sahih Muslim: 2588]

and not as a commodity to be hoarded.

“O you who have believed, indeed many of the scholars and the monks devour the wealth of people unjustly and avert [them] from the way of Allah. And those who hoard gold and silver and spend it not in the way of Allah – give them tidings of a painful punishment.” [Surah at-Tawbah; 9:34]

This approach aims to reduce economic disparities and promote a more equitable society:

Abu Wa’il narrated that Qais bin Abi Gharazah said:

“The Messenger of Allah came to us, and we were what was called ‘brokers,’ he said: ‘O people of trade! Indeed the Shaitan and sin are present in the sale, so mix your sales with charity.'”He said: There are narrations on this topic from Al-Bara’ bin ‘Azib and Rifa’ah.

[Abu ‘Eisa said:] The Hadith of Qais bin Abi Gharazah (a narrator) is a Hasan Sahih Hadith.

Mansur, Al-A’mash, Habib bin Abi Thabit, and others reported it from Abu Wa’il, from Qais bin Abi Gharzah, from the Prophet ﷺ. We do not know of anything from the Prophet ﷺ narrated by Qais other than this. [Jami` at-Tirmidhi 1208]

Legal and Institutional Challenges

The Banking Regulation Act, 1949, forms the backbone of India’s banking system, which is predominantly interest-based. This framework presents challenges for integrating Islamic finance, which operates on principles contrary to interest-based lending.

Various committees have examined the feasibility of Islamic banking in India. The Anand Sinha Committee (2005) deemed it incompatible within the existing legal framework, while the Raghuram Rajan Committee (2008) acknowledged that interest-free banking could provide financial access to excluded communities. However, in 2017, the proposal for Islamic banking was rejected, citing the need for equal opportunities for all citizens.

International Models and Secularism Concerns

Countries like the UK and Germany have implemented faith-based banking models, providing services that align with Islamic principles. Similarly, Muslim-majority nations such as Malaysia and Indonesia have successfully integrated Islamic banks alongside conventional ones, demonstrating that dual systems can coexist.

Critics argue that introducing Islamic banking in India could challenge secularism by creating a parallel economy. However, India already accommodates religious diversity in its economic and legal systems—such as Hindu Undivided Family (HUF) accounts enjoying tax benefits and the operation of Muslim personal law and waqf boards. Therefore, allowing financial models that address the ethical concerns of Muslims may enhance substantive equality without undermining secularism.

Potential Solutions: NBFCs and Cooperative Models

Establishing full-fledged Islamic banks in India faces significant legal and political challenges. However, Non-Banking Financial Companies (NBFCs) offer a viable alternative. Since NBFCs are not governed by the Banking Regulation Act, they can operate with asset-backed transactions in line with Islamic finance principles. An example is Cheraman Financial Services in Kerala, approved by the Reserve Bank of India in 2013, which provides interest-free financial services.1

Additionally, cooperative models and Islamic banking windows within existing institutions can provide services that align with Islamic principles, fostering economic inclusion and narrowing the participation gap between the Muslim community and others.

Conclusion

The debate on Islamic banking in India underscores a broader tension between a uniform legal framework and the need for economic inclusion of minorities. While establishing full-fledged Islamic banks may be legally and politically challenging, NBFCs, cooperative models, and Islamic banking windows within existing institutions offer feasible alternatives. What is needed is not rejection but regulatory innovation—approaches that can reconcile India’s secular commitments with the financial participation of one of its largest minority communities.

 

Related:

– Perpetual Outsiders: Accounts Of The History Of Islam In The Indian Subcontinent

– Meaningful Money: How Financial Literacy Amplifies Your Giving

 

1    https://prsindia.org/files/policy/policy_committee_reports/1242304423–Summary%20of%20Sachar%20Committee%20Report.pdf

The post Can India’s Financial System Make Room For Faith? appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Deek shops for a house, and has a strange experience in a local gym.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23 | Part 24

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“He who loses himself to gain the world is the poorest of all.” — Saadi Shirazi

Chats And Bad Jokes

He spent the afternoon meeting with other real estate agents. A sweet but soft-hearted mom, then a surfer type with blonde dreads puffing on a vape.

The fourth was the worst. During a meeting with a broad-shouldered, bald broker in khakis, the man asked Deek about his ethnicity. When Deek said he was Arab, the broker joked that, “Anything’s better than a mud hut in the desert, right?” Deek felt his jaw tighten. He wanted to pick up the man’s laptop and throw it against the wall. Instead, he rose, smoothing his blazer. “Go dunk your head in the river.”

He walked out before his temper snapped and he personally drowned the man in the aforementioned river.

Discouraged, he called off the home search for the day. This was the moment when, before last week, he would have gone to a diner and buried his sorrows with a tuna melt and fries along with an ice-cold soda, followed by a slice of apple pie and a scoop of ice cream, or maybe a chocolate malt.

Food And Fortune

And in fact, now that the Namer’s potion had completely dissipated from his system, his desire for junk food, especially sweets, had returned. But the cravings were not as strong as before, and he was able to resist them. And he was motivated to resist them, because he’d noticed that since he’d quit eating junk food, he had more energy, his skin was clearer, and most importantly of all, the humiliating bowel urgency he used to experience was gone.

This brought to mind how he’d soiled himself in the Porsche, and he waved a hand to dismiss the unpleasant memory.

He went to his favorite Chinese restaurant, Imperial Garden on Blackstone near Herndon, and had a plate of grilled fish with braised green beans.

He would have liked to invite Marco for dinner, but his friend was putting him in an impossible position. Marco himself couldn’t afford to eat out, and he wouldn’t let Deek pay. What option did that leave?

As he ate, he kept thinking of that poor girl, Sanaya, lying in a hospital bed in that dim room, half-starved, dying of a rare disease. And here he was, eating a good meal and thinking nothing of it.

Wait – why had he called her Sanaya? The girl’s name was Maryam! Astaghfirullah. La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah.

Appetite gone, he pushed aside the last of the food and broke open the cookie to extract the so-called fortune, which read, “Customer service is like taking a bath: you have to do it again.”

The ridiculousness of it hit Deek like laughing gas, and he burst into a fit of laughter, which halfway through turned into something else. He braced his elbow on the table and covered his face with his hand.

A hand patted his shoulder, and he looked up to see the elderly Chinese waiter, medium height and as skinny as a stalk of bamboo, with thick black hair above a high forehead. “Gonna be okay, mister.”

“What are you talking about?” Deek looked at the man through bleary eyes. “I’m laughing.”

“I know, I know. Food on the house. No charge.”

“What do you mean? I can pay.”

The waiter waggled his hand. “No charge. Everything gonna be okay.”

In the car, Deek wiped his eyes, embarrassed by the emotion that had overtaken him in public. The waiter’s words echoed, simple and absurdly comforting: Everything gonna be okay. Maybe it would, maybe it wouldn’t. But he was discovering that there was one place he could always retreat, one practice that he could hold on to like a lifeline – salat. He’d been praying a lot more lately, and it was becoming a refuge. Which was something he very much needed.

Help Wanted

Back at the hotel, he prayed, then sat at his computer and transferred two hundred thousand dollars to Dr. Rana’s account. Checking his email, he saw that the man had already sent him scans of medical bills totaling over a million dollars. He didn’t feel comfortable paying such huge sums online or over the phone. He decided that he would see an accountant the next day. He texted Imam Saleh, asking him if he knew a good Muslim accountant.

It occurred to him for the first time that he needed an assistant. He had a lot of money to manage, and letting it sit in cash was not good, as it would be eaten up over time by inflation, taxes, and zakat. He didn’t have time to manage his money, handle these various philanthropic ventures he was getting into, shop for a house, cook healthy meals, and all the other daily necessities of life. In fact, he might need more than one assistant. How did rich people handle this stuff?

A wave of weariness swept over him. He thought that his body, on some inner level, might still be recuperating from the various physical injuries he’d incurred. He took the time to change into pajamas, then lay on his right side on the huge bed, hugged the pillow tightly to his chest, and fell asleep.

Current Of Dreams

He awoke for Maghreb. There was a response from Imam Saleh, with the contact info for a Pakistani accountant named Zakariyya. The man had graduated from Stanford but was still building his customer base. “Might be good to get in on the ground floor with him,” Saleh wrote.

He’d just finished praying when Dr. Rana called.

“Assalamu alaykum wa rahmatullah, Janab-e-Deek Sahib. I received the money you transferred. I only wanted to say shukriya from the depth of my heart. Your generosity is beyond expectation.”

Deek winced in embarrassment. “You’re welcome, Doctor. I need to see an accountant tomorrow to figure out what method I will use to pay the larger bills, but it will get done soon inshaAllah.”

“You must call me Sajid, please, Mr. Saghir sir.”

“And you should call me Deek. Our daughters are friends.”

“No, I cannot do that, sir. You have lifted a mountain from my shoulders. My daughter, my family, we will make dua’ for you day and night, inshaAllah. Please forgive me for what happened before. I did not know what test I was under. Khuda ap ko salamat rakhe.”

The call with Dr. Rana left Deek feeling sour. He’d chatted with the man a few times in the past, but Rana had never shown him this level of respect, nor displayed any real interest in his life. Suddenly, Deek was worthy of deference bordering on reverence? Why? Because he was rich now? Because he’d given Rana money? Wasn’t he the same man he’d been before? Well – that was life, he supposed. He’d better get used to it.

He paced the suite like a caged tiger. He knew that he had to do something. There was so much going on inside him. Since the Namer’s potion had worn off, loneliness had been rising inside him like flood waters, and now threatened to break the levees that protected his ability to think and work. A tornado of thoughts raged: Rania’s anger and pain, Sanaya’s coldness toward him, the frightening experiences of the last week, Faraz’s tears, the brothers in the masjid surrounding him as if he were a great tree and they were loggers trying to cut him down and pull out his pithy heart.

He remembered his visit to the river recently, and how it had calmed him. Those deep, beautiful waters called to him again. But even he was not crazy enough to go there alone at night.

Rania wasn’t answering his texts. Marco… Deek couldn’t bring himself to call. He pictured his old friend, sitting in that tiny apartment, and felt a wall between them that hadn’t been there before—the thick, invisible wall of Deek’s money.

So he decided to sweat.

Fluid Fitness

He pulled on gym clothes—new ones, tags barely off—and drove a mile down the road to Fluid Fitness, a slick little place he’d noticed in passing, its windows glowing with neon and posters of polished bodies in motion. Their slogan, plastered in chrome letters across the front, read: For People Like Us.

Inside, everything was spotless white and violet, like the interior of a spaceship. The sound system was playing music he didn’t recognize, all synthesized sounds and generic autotuned singing. He walked up to the front desk and asked if he could pay for the day only. The girl at the desk looked about nineteen, all eyeliner and indifference. She looked up from her phone reluctantly and gave Deek a slow up-and-down, lips twitching with something close to pity.

“Are you a bodybuilder?”

“No. I’m just naturally big.”

“We allow walk-ins,” she said, her voice flat as drywall. “Twenty bucks for the day. But…” She tilted her head. “This for reals isn’t the right fit for you. You might prefer Gold’s. They do heavy lifting there.”

Deek leaned on the counter. “I’m not a bodybuilder. And even if I was, so what? This is a gym, right?”

“This is a holistic, inclusive self-improvement environment.” This was a memorized response, Deek was sure.

He put twenty dollars on the counter. “Do I need to sign in?”

She sighed. “Fine. But there are rules.” She ticked them off on her fingers. “No heavy lifting. No grunting. No asking people how many sets they have left. No dropping weights. No, like, dripping. If you sweat, you need to wipe down. Also—no eye contact longer than three seconds. People find that aggressive.”

“I wouldn’t dream of sweating.”

The girl’s eyes narrowed. “And no sarcasm.”

Deek raised an eyebrow. “Anything else?”

“No protein shakes on the studio floor.”

“I’ll manage,” Deek said, sliding over the twenty.

Pleasure In Pain

It was a small gym, and sparsely populated. The weight rack was lined with pastel dumbbells—three, five, and ten pounds—like Easter eggs in neat rows. The heaviest were twenty, glowing neon yellow. Deek picked them up, feeling like he was curling two bananas.

A kid next to him, crop-top and man-bun, was filming himself with a ring light. “Day twenty of my biceps journey,” he whispered into the phone, curling pink five-pounders. He spotted Deek. “Bro. You’re, like, dominating the space.”

“I’m just lifting,” Deek said.

“Yeah, but your energy is alpha.” The kid winced like it was a slur.

A half hour later, he was on the shoulder press machine. Rules or no rules, he was working hard, moving from one station to the next without pause, and setting the machines on the highest weight settings. Pushing the weights felt good. The dumbbells were obstacles he could move. Concrete goals that he could achieve. His muscles were sore, but he took pleasure in the pain, for the soreness made him feel alive, and humbled him at the same time.

The Wrong Tone

As he completed a heavy bench press set, a slender, thirty-ish man with a clipboard appeared, polo shirt tucked in tight. His name tag identified him as Andrew.

“Sir?” Andrew’s smile was as thin as dental floss. “I’m the manager. You’ll have to leave. You’re setting the wrong tone.”

Deek sat up slowly, breathing hard. “The wrong tone?”

“You’re… intense,” the man said delicately. “Some of our members feel judged.”

Deek laughed. He couldn’t help it. “For lifting weights in a gym?”

“Not a gym. A holistic self-improvement environment.”

“You forgot to mention inclusive.”

The manager’s face reddened. “Yes, of course.”

Deek rested an elbow on his knee, studying the man. Andrew’s appearance was masculine, but there was definitely something effeminate about him. The way he curled his wrists, perhaps.

They really wanted to kick him out. Deek felt a rush of anger. Wanting to mess with the manager, Deek said, “My family came to America as refugees, and now you’re kicking me out of here as well?” Yet even though he’d said the words as a joke, there was truth in them, and the manager picked up on it, because his face went white.

“Oh! You are refugees?”

“From Iraq. My family fled in the middle of the night, one step ahead of the secret police. We hid in a truck with a false wall. We didn’t all – “ Deek paused, his throat tight. “We didn’t all make it.” He cleared his throat, embarrassed. What had started as a joke had turned into a confession.

Andrew put a hand to his chest. “Bless your heart.” Looking around, he clapped his hands and called out, “Gather round, everyone! Group huddle.”

“You don’t have to -” Deek began, but Andrew cut him off with a single finger to Deek’s chest.

The dozen or so patrons, all young men and women, gathered around.

“This is Deek,” Andrew said gravely. “He and his family are refugees. They went through the most awful experiences to get to this country. He might not know how things are done here, but we will make him welcome.”

The young people all nodded. One girl applauded lightly. Mortified beyond belief, Deek stood and said, “I’m sorry I made you uncomfortable. I’ll tone it down.”

The youth making the video offered his hand for a high five and said, “Your English is awesome. Let’s do a collab sometime.”

Deek had been ready to wrap up his workout, but now felt obliged to continue. He did a handful of slow, easy sets. As he was heading out, the girl at the desk handed him a laminated card. “One month free,” she said. “I think you’re so brave.”

In the car, Deek tipped his head back and laughed out loud. Americans would never cease to amaze him. They didn’t seem to know if they wanted to save the world or burn it to the ground. Both, he supposed.

In his hotel room that night, he texted Rania one last time: “We don’t have to be enemies.”

No reply came.

Realtor And Shark

The first thing he did the next morning was to check for messages from Rania or the girls. To his dismay, there were none. He texted the girls, inviting them to lunch tomorrow, which was a Sunday. Amira replied that she was attending her friend Salima’s birthday party. Sanaya simply responded, “No thanks.”

Checking his bank accounts, he saw that Rania had returned $70K of the last $100K he had sent her. He sat back in the desk chair, hands limp in his lap. What did this mean? Was she done with him? He felt like a car that had been drained of gasoline and now sat without spark or impetus.

He moped, then ordered an omelette from room service and ate it as he surveyed the crypto market on his computer. Prices were beginning to decline, though just a little. He knew the decline would accelerate. Many investors would hold firm, thinking it was just a dip. A lot of people would get hammered into poverty.

He needed to move, to do something productive. It was all he knew how to do. Specifically, he still needed to find a house. Like a knight donning his armor, he put on one of his fine suits, stood up straight, and went out.

In the course of his travels that morning, he stepped into an open house almost by accident — a modest property he knew wasn’t right, but it was on the riverfront and worth a look.

Inside, he paused to watch a debate between two real estate agents. The showing agent was a tall, sun-weathered guy in snakeskin boots and a cowboy hat. In front of him, a petite Latina with long black hair in a ponytail, and wearing an expensive-looking gray pantsuit and low heels, was ticking off points in rapid-fire, accented English.

“Your numbers are fantasy, Mister Dorian. The vacancy rate for properties in this price range is double what you claim. Do not insult me.” She snapped her fingers and waved at the house. “You take the deal now, or you’ll sit on this property another year while the weeds grow to your nose hairs.”

The cowboy sputtered, but the woman held up a hand. “Hold on.” She took out her phone, spoke in fast Spanish for a minute, then turned back to the cowboy. “We will increase our bid by three percent. You have twenty-four hours.” She began a rapid exit, heels clicking on the hardwood floor.

This was the agent Deek wanted.

He intercepted her, saying, “Excuse me.”

The woman stopped to look Deek up and down with sharp brown eyes. “I am not the showing agent. I am a buyer’s agent.” She resumed walking.

Deek ran after her. “That’s what I want! I’m a buyer.”

She stopped again and broke into a dazzling smile. “Bueno.” She extended her hand. “Marcela Gómez. Realtor, economist, shark when necessary.”

Fast And Fierce

Standing in the circular driveway, Deek told her what he wanted: privacy, land, something along the San Joaquin River, with actual river access. Something solidly built. The size of the house didn’t matter much, as he could expand it as needed.

“What you ask for is not cheap, Señor Saghir.” She rubbed her fingers together.

“I can pay.”

Marcela nodded briskly. “Leave it with me. I have cousins up and down this valley. In our country, Colombia, you have to be fast and fierce. If there’s a property to be had, they’ll, how do you say, smell it up?”

“Sniff it out.”

“Exacto. And I will get you the best price, even if I have to fight like a gehriyya to do it.”

“What’s a gehriyya?”

“You know. A fighter.”

“Oh. A guerrilla?”

“Gorilla is an animal, no?”

Deek smiled, restraining a laugh. “Don’t worry about the price. I just want a property that meets my needs, quickly.”

Marcela tilted her head. “Oh, money is not an object? Are you authorized to make that call?”

“It’s for me. I’m the buyer.”

Family Office

“Ah, bueno. Just that high net worth individuals usually leave such things to the family office.”

“What’s a family office?”

Marcela pulled back, looking him up and down. “You are only recently wealthy?”

“Yeah. Why?”

Marcela checked her phone, then looked up at Deek as if surprised he was still there. “I am a real estate agent,” she said. “Not a finance instructor. Are you serious about buying a house or no?”

“Yes, I am. But could you please explain the family office thing? Humor me.”

She sighed. “Very wealthy families do not personally manage their finances. They have a family office, which is basically their own company, run by experts who work only for them.”

Deek considered this, rubbing his chin. “You’ve seen this before?”

“Claro que sí. I have a degree in international finance, and I worked in such an office for one of the flower families. You think the sugar dynasties in Cali or the oil families in Medellín run around calling realtors and accountants one by one? You, Señor Saghir, are operating like a man with one hundred thousand dollars, not however many of the millions you have.” She waved her hand up and down to indicate Deek and his fine suit.

Deek nodded slowly. “What kind of people would run an office like that?”

“The Chief Investment Officer. An office manager, real estate director, security officer, a personal CFO to handle family matters, and so on. A lawyer, unless you hire an outside firm. Sometimes a, how do you say, filantropia director.”

“Philanthropy. Wow. That’s a lot of people. I would want people who know how to invest according to Islamic guidelines. No interest, no stocks related to gambling, alcohol, and so on.”

“Pues, I’m sure you can find such people in your countries, like Dubai. And that’s the end of the finance lesson. D – Y – O – R.” She punctuated each letter with a snap of her fingers.

He didn’t bother telling her that Dubai was not a country. They parted ways with the understanding that Marcela would call him when she found a house.

***

Come back next week for Part 26 inshaAllah

 

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

Day Of The Dogs, Part 1 – Tiny Ripples Of Hope

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

 

The post Moonshot [Part 25] – Save The World Or Burn It Down appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

October is Islamic History Month in Canada, federally recognized since 2007 as an opportunity to “to celebrate, inform, educate, and share with fellow Canadians the rich Muslim heritage and contributions to society.” This year’s theme is “Pioneering Muslim Communities in Canada,” learning about and giving homage to those in our communities who first established Islam in these lands. From small islands to sprawling urban centers, every Muslim community in Canada started with at least one person who believed in Allah and created space for fellow believers to come together and build upwards.

In addition to the pioneering history of Muslims in Canada, we must consider more recent history as well: the realities of Muslims in a post-9/11 world, contending with the surveillance state, illegal detention and torture, and ongoing harassment of Muslims in Canada. Figures such as Maher Arar and Omar Khader must have their stories remembered, and lessons learned from, on just how fraught our existence as Muslims in Canada truly is. The work of people like Monia Mazigh must never be forgotten, as it is the work that so many of us will need to draw from in our own confrontations with state-led Islamophobia.

 – Journey of the Midnight Sun by Shazia Afzal

In 2010, a Winnipeg-based charity raised funds to build and ship a mosque to Inuvik, one of the most northern towns in Canada’s Arctic. A small but growing Muslim community there had been using a cramped trailer for their services, but there just wasn’t enough space. The mosque travelled over 4,000 kilometers on a journey fraught with poor weather, incomplete bridges, narrow roads, low traffic wires, and a deadline to get on the last barge heading up the Mackenzie River before the first winter freeze.

This stunning picture book makes the perfect Islamic History Month storytime choice!

– Minarets on the Horizon by Murray Hogben

This book gives us a detailed look at the Muslim presence in Canada, starting with the pioneer settlers from Syria/Lebanon and the Balkans in the early twentieth century and moving on to the more modern midcentury arrivals from South Asia and Africa. Told in their own words, the stories in this collection give us a rare insight into the lives of these pioneer Muslims.

Punjabi men in the timber mills of British Columbia; Lebanese Arab peddlers on foot or horse cart on the rural highways of Alberta, Saskatchewan, and Manitoba; men venturing north on dog sleighs to trade for fur; young women arriving to start families and soon to become family matriarchs; shopkeepers serving small provincial towns and big cities; and finally, students and professionals arriving in the postwar urban centres.

Wherever they went, they bore the brunt of xenophobia and acknowledged kindnesses, as they adapted and sought out fellow worshippers and set up community centres and mosques.

– Al-Rashid Mosque: Building Canadian Muslim Communities by Earle H. Waugh

Al Rashid Mosque, Canada’s first and one of the earliest in North America, was erected in Edmonton in the depths of the Depression of the 1930s. Over time, the story of this first mosque, which served as a magnet for more Lebanese Muslim immigrants to Edmonton, was woven into the folklore of the local community.

Edmonton’s Al Rashid Mosque has played a key role in Islam’s Canadian development. Founded by Muslims from Lebanon, it has grown into a vibrant community fully integrated into Canada’s cultural mosaic. The mosque continues to be a concrete expression of social good, a symbol of a proud Muslim Canadian identity. Al Rashid Mosque provides a welcome introduction to the ethics and values of homegrown Muslims. The book traces the mosque’s role in education and community leadership and celebrates the numerous contributions of Muslim Canadians in Edmonton and across Canada.

– How Muslims Shaped the Americas by Omar Mouallem

In How Muslims Shaped the Americas, Mouallem explores the unknown history of Islam across the Americas, traveling to thirteen unique mosques in search of an answer to how this religion has survived and thrived so far from the place of its origin. From California to Quebec, and from Brazil to Canada’s icy north, he meets the members of fascinating communities, all of whom provide different perspectives on what it means to be Muslim. Along this journey, he comes to understand that Islam has played a fascinating role in how the Americas were shaped—from industrialization to the changing winds of politics.

Despite my distaste with the author himself, this book does an excellent job of exploring both Al-Rashid Masjid and the Midnight Sun Mosque (the very same one from the picture book!), as well as pausing to pay homage to the victims and survivors of the Quebec City Mosque Massacre in Grande Mosquee de Quebec.

– Hope & Despair: My Struggle to Free My Husband, Maher Arar by Monia Mazigh

This book traces the inspiring story of Monia Mazigh’s courageous fight to free her husband, Maher Arar, from a Syrian jail. From the moment Maher Arar, a Canadian citizen, was disappeared into the bowels of Bashar al-Assad’s dungeons, Monia Mazigh worked tirelessly against the Canadian government, security intelligence agencies, and media to bring her husband home and get him justice.

She began a tireless campaign to bring public attention and government action to her husband’s plight, eventually resulting in his release and return to Canada. Arar and Mazigh’s story is a chilling reminder to all Canadian Muslims of the realities of living under systemic Islamophobia, and is an important lesson to us all on resisting and holding our government accountable.

– Systemic Islamophobia in Canada: A Research Agenda

Systemic Islamophobia in Canada presents critical perspectives on systemic Islamophobia in Canadian politics, law, and society, and maps areas for future research and inquiry. The authors consist of both scholars and professionals who encounter in the ordinary course of their work the – sometimes banal, sometimes surprising – operation of systemic Islamophobia. Centring the lived realities of Muslims primarily in Canada, but internationally as well, the contributors identify the limits of democratic accountability in the operation of our shared institutions of government

– Under Siege: Islamophobia and the 9/11 Generation by Jazmine Zine

Under Siege explores the lives of Canadian Muslim youth belonging to the 9/11 generation as they navigate these fraught times of global war and terror. While many studies address contemporary manifestations of Islamophobia and anti-Muslim racism, few have focused on the toll this takes on Muslim communities, especially among younger generations.

Covering topics such as citizenship, identity and belonging, securitization, radicalization, campus culture in an age of empire, and subaltern Muslim counterpublics and resistance, Under Siege provides a unique and comprehensive examination of the complex realities of Muslim youth in a post-9/11 world.

This Islamic History Month, Canadian Muslim communities should take the time to honour our pioneering members, teach our youth about the Islamic history of Canadian Muslims, and educate ourselves on how to navigate living in this country that remains riddled with systemic Islamophobia.

 

Related:

From the MuslimMatters Bookshelf: Black (Muslim) History Month Reads

Muslim Women’s History: A Book List

The post Islamic History Month Canada: A Bookish Roundup appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

[Author’s Note: In October of 2023, Israel launched a genocide against Gaza. On October 13, Al Jazeera mentioned in a news article that ice cream trucks were being used as makeshift morgues due to the overwhelming numbers of deceased people needing a place to be buried.]

 

     In the summer, your mother throws open the windows of your little house, the breeze playing with the thin curtains, creating flowery ghosts. The tinkling music of the ice cream truck floats in, making you perk up like the housecat seeing a bird.

     You run outside, your sister following suit, her small legs never letting her catch up unless you slow down—but you don’t, not until you are behind the truck and the dry dust burns your eyes, not until it stops and the man inside leans out to greet the gaggle of children now gathering around the truck.

     While you wait in line, an airplane flies by. You flinch, but she waves at it. She hasn’t learned what you had to, and you hope, stupidly, that she never does. 

     You hand her the ice cream before grabbing your own. You want to savour yours for as long as possible, until it’s dripping down your arm in sticky rivulets that your mother will get annoyed at, but you know your sister will devour hers and ask for yours.

 

     She’s learning to draw. 

     She wants your crayons, and your mother makes you share. You whine, but nothing changes, so you hand her some paper and tell her to keep quiet. For a few minutes, it stays so, her stubby fingers gripping the wax as she drags it across the page, fascinated by the transfer. 

     When you’re engrossed in drawing your own landscape— your grandparents’ olive trees, in the village you visit every few weeks— she hits your arm hard enough to send a stray crayon streak across the paper. When you look up to yell, she shows you a paper— two stick figures sharing ice cream. She tells you that you’re the taller one. You laugh. My skin isn’t orange.

     You keep the drawing in your closet.

 

     You have a sister. 

     She plays with the neighbourhood girls on the roof every evening, till the Maghreb adhan calls them back inside. She wraps a headscarf halfway across her head and stands behind you and your dad as you pray. Your mother tries to fix it. It doesn’t stay. 

     When you’re praying for everything you want— safety, for yourself and your parents and the olive trees and those that care for them— she says, ya Allah, please let me own an ice cream truck when I’m old. 

     You laugh, but an Ameen still follows. 

 

     You have a sister. 

     Someone picks on her for her pigtails—someone from your grade. Your dad tells you nothing except that you are her brother. It’s your job to protect her. 

     The principal calls your dad the next day— Bruised knuckles and a bloody nose. Your dad says, he was protecting her. Should he not?

     He buys you both ice cream on the way home. 

 

     You have a sister. 

     She cries when the first bomb hits, and the second, and the third. 

     She throws up when you pull the cat out of the rubble, a bright red gash across its abdomen. It mewls pathetically, barely skin and bones, and you have to fight the urge to cry— boys don’t cry, especially not in front of their little sisters. You hold the cat close to your chest, caressing what’s left of her spotted fur, for which you’d named her Cow. 

 

     You have a sister.

     She stopped crying an hour ago, fast asleep now. Your mother drapes a white sheet on her, trying to hide her hiccups. She always hiccups when she cries. Your sister does the same. 

     The night air bites your skin, but you just climbed out of what used to be your room, and your blanket is still somewhere under all of it. You want to share your sister’s sheet, but she is much colder, and she’s hogging it up. 

     She hit her head under all the rubble, you’re sure of it. You tell your dad that he should wake her up. Shouldn’t we take her to the doctor?

     The tinkling music of the ice cream truck pierces the silence. You startle, mouth watering— an ingrained response. Baba, are we getting ice cream? Usually, your mother would not let you eat sweets before dinner, but you haven’t had dinner in days.

     The truck stops, and the ice cream man steps out, face grim and dusted with gray. Your dad gets up, wrapping the sheet tighter around your sister. They begin moving her. 

 

     You had a sister. 

     In the summers, you’d run after the ice cream truck, her far behind you, and you’d call the man inside by his name. You’d hand her the first cone so she wouldn’t complain, and you’d finish yours off first so she wouldn’t ask for it. She would pray with her scarf halfway off her head, and she’d pray to own an ice cream truck someday. 

 

     You had a sister.
     She will wake up on top of soft grass, a blanket of sunlight over her skin. She will wake to tinkling laughter and the sound of a flowing river. She will find the friends she cried over, and the cat she fed every day, feeding him even when her stomach rumbled. She won’t remember the smell of blood, the cold of nights spent under open skies, waiting for the next bomb, or pain that blossomed in a body not strong enough for it. But she will remember you. 

     And she’ll wait to share ice cream with you again.

 

Related:

– A Prayer On Wings: A Poem Of Palestinian Return

– If You Could Speak: A Poem

The post Ice Cream: A Poem On The Loss Of Childhood In Gaza appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

A visit to Jum’ah prayer takes a shocking turn.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22 | Part 23

* * *

“We all need mercy, we all need justice, and—perhaps—we all need some measure of unmerited grace.” — Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy

Allah Will Take Care Of Me

Imam Saleh stepped up onto the crescent-shaped wooden minbar, hand-built in Turkey and donated to the masjid by the Turkish consulate in San Francisco.

The Imam’s voice was steady, warm, and familiar. Deek – aware of the eyes upon him – pulled his sleeve down to cover his expensive watch, leaned back against the wall, arms folded, and closed his eyes.

He listened with interest when the Imam said:

“Brothers and sisters, let me tell you a story from my student days in Jordan, where I had gone to study Arabic and Islam. One day at the main masjid in Amman I met a man named Yusuf, who had come from Senegal to study the Quran. He had just arrived with nothing—no money, no contacts, not even a place to sleep. I asked him, ‘Where will you go?’ He smiled and said, ‘Allah will take care of me.’”

The words echoed strangely in the hollows of Deek’s chest.

The Imam continued:

“A businessman overheard Yusuf’s story, and offered to sponsor him at the Quran school indefinitely. SubhanAllah. Over the years, I saw him sometimes. He never had an income, but he never complained. Always he said, ‘Allah will take care of me.’ One night, I was out running errands, and I felt an urge to attend Ishaa’ at that masjid where I had met Yusuf. I didn’t usually go there as it was out of my way. I couldn’t explain it, but I went. And there was Yusuf.

After salat, he remained sitting. I went to him and we had a conversation. Only after I had talked to him for ten minutes, and I asked him how his studies were going, did he tell me, “I memorized the entire Quran. But I cannot return home because I don’t have money for the ticket.” I asked him why he hadn’t told me this right away, and he said he’d had a dream that he should come to this masjid tonight and meet me, and everything would work out. So he was waiting for the matter to resolve itself, as he knew that Allah would provide.

I had very little money myself. I spoke to the Imam, and he made a phone call, and soon someone had pledged the money for Yusuf’s ticket. Yusuf returned home, and I never saw him again.

This is tawakkul—trust in Allah. This world is not sustained by wealth, but by Allah’s Mercy. Whoever clings to Him, Allah provides in ways they never imagined.”

Stagnant Rainwater

Deek tried to picture the Senegalese man—hungry, alone in a foreign country, no home or friends, no money, certainly no fancy watch—yet serene. In his mind, another face emerged: his father, standing in the garden in his white dishdasha, saying, “Deek, this dunya will deceive you. Be a good Muslim. Be a good husband and father. That is wealth.” And then his father recited the ayah that he so often repeated: “Say, ‘Consider this: if your water were to sink ˹into the earth˺, then who could bring you flowing water?'”

Deek remembered praying with his daughters when they were little. Amira climbing onto his back while he prostrated in sujood, and Sanaya scolding her. Afterwards, he always scooped them up and kissed their foreheads, teaching them the dua’ after salat. His heart had been light back then.

He thought of Sanaya’s solemn face that morning, refusing even salam. How times have changed. Sadness filled him like stagnant rainwater from a rusty can.

When the prayer ended, Deek remained sitting, saying his dhikr. He’d seen a lot of brothers eyeing him during the khutbah, and it was embarrassing. He checked his phone. Rania’s reply read: “Allah will take care of me.” He stared at the screen. It was the message from the khutbah. Was she here? He stood, hoping to slip out quietly and look for her. But before he could depart, a cluster of brothers gathered around.

A Flood Of Questions

One was a tall Afghan man in a worn shalwar kameez, his beard streaked with gray. “Brother,” he said warmly, “you are Deek Saghir, yes? I heard you are doing very well with the crypto. Masha’Allah. Tell me, how do you buy these coins? Can I just go to the bank?”

A Latino brother, young and muscular and wearing a backward baseball cap, leaned in eagerly. He could have been a pro ball player preparing to take a swing. “Is it true that people become millionaires overnight? My cousin says he missed out on Dogecoin. Do you think it’s still possible?”

An older African-American brother wearing a bright African daishiki and a white kufi, frowned skeptically. “But what if it’s gambling? Some say it is haram, no different from the lottery. What do you say, akh?”

Their faces pressed close, voices overlapping.

“Are you a millionaire now?”

“Can you tell us your secret?”

“Can you give us a class?”

A tall, doe-eyed teenager sidled up beside him and tapped the sheath of the knife on Deek’s hip. “Why do you have this?” The boy seemed innocently curious, but Deek placed a protective hand over the knife.

“Pathetic.” This last came from a young African-American brother wearing black jeans and a Raiders shirt, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Deek didn’t know if the comment was a reference to Deek himself, or to the desperate, grasping admirers surrounding him.

Deek felt his pulse quicken. His mouth opened, but no words came out. He glanced across the prayer hall and caught sight of Faraz leaning against the wall, watching with his usual grin. Deek lifted his hand in a quick, sharp gesture: Is this your doing? Faraz only raised his eyebrows and shook his head, palms up in mock innocence.

Deek forced a smile, stammering. “Well, you see… cryptocurrency, it’s, ah… it’s not like dollars exactly. It’s, um, decentralized. You could say it’s like… like math, really. Secure math. People trade it, and the value goes up and down. Some… some people win, some lose…” His words tangled, and he felt heat rising in his face.

A Desperate Plea

One brother, a fiftyish Pakistani with a proud nose and a receding hairline, dressed like a college professor in slacks and sports coat, seized Deek’s lapel. Deek didn’t know the man’s name, but he’d spoken to him before. He was a doctor with a daughter a few years older than Sanaya. She was a pharmacy student. The man had always seemed calm and even slightly jovial.

Now, however, his eyes were bloodshot, and his normally well-coiffed hair looked uncombed.

“My daughter is sick,” the man said. “I’ve spent everything. I have no money left for her treatment.”

Deek tried to pull away, but the man held him fast. “Share what Allah has given you.” His voice rose. “Don’t be selfish!”

Imam Saleh stepped between them and physically pushed the brother away. “Doctor Rana!” he snapped. “This is not appropriate.”

Deek took a step back, caught his foot on the edge of a rug, and fell with a startled cry.

“I don’t care about appropriate!” Rana shouted. “Allah has abandoned me.”

Imam Saleh stepped toward the distraught doctor, and for a shocked second, Deek thought the Imam would hit the man. Instead, Saleh embraced the desperate father and whispered in his ear. Rana’s shoulders slumped, and he turned and walked out.

Saleh made shooing motions at the remaining brothers. “Everyone out, please. Show’s over. Respect brother Deek’s privacy.”

Deek got back to his feet, rubbing his wrist, which was sore from breaking his fall.

The men dispersed reluctantly, muttering thanks and salams. Deek exhaled and smoothed his lapels. His hands remained on his chest as if to shield himself. His breath was shaky.

Imam Saleh approached him gently. “I am very sorry. Dr. Rana is going through a difficult time. But that doesn’t excuse his behavior.”

Deek lifted one shoulder. “Not your fault. And I understand. If one of my daughters were sick and I couldn’t help her, I’d lose my mind too.”

Imam Saleh rubbed Deek’s shoulder. “You’re a kind man, mashaAllah. I’m sorry about the other brothers too. They are curious, and perhaps too eager.”

Deek’s heart was still running, but he gave a slight nod. “I understand.”

“You probably don’t want to do that seminar anymore.”

Deek swallowed. “I don’t know.”

Before leaving, Deek asked for Dr. Rana’s address. If the Imam was surprised, he didn’t show it.

Rolling In It

There was no sign of Rania outside. Faraz caught up to him in the parking lot, slapping him on the shoulder. Deek flinched, still gun-shy after his experience inside, but Faraz was an old friend, and he told himself to relax.

“Deek! Broooo! Look at you in the suit, so beautiful like a wave of the ocean. MashaAllah, mashaAllah.” His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “You rolling in it now, right? How much? How many millis?” He rubbed his fingers together and said, “Cha-ching, cha-ching!”

“I guessed you missed all the drama just now?”

“What, something happen? I see them crowding you. So sorry.”

Deek smiled. “No big deal. But what about you, akhi? The market is firing on all cylinders. You must have cleaned up too.”

Faraz’s face fell. “I drop it all on a meme coin. My cousin part of the project, he say the founders have a roadmap and investors. But was a scam. I lose everything. My cousin too.”

Deek was shocked. “You put everything on one meme coin?”

Faraz made an angry gesture. “Was stupid. Don’t matter, is Allah’s qadar. What happen, happen.”

Deek exhaled loudly. “That’s rough. I’d loan you some Solana but I exited crypto. I sold it all. The crash is coming.”

Faraz poked Deek in the chest. “You a oracle, smart like a Bengal tiger. I tell you what, buy me espresso machine, I be happy man.” Again his voice fell to a whisper. “Just between me and you. How much you make? I don’t tell no one.”

Deek looked at his old friend, remembering how they’d started together in crypto, both nearly broke, trading ideas and strategies over coffee and sweets. And not just any coffee, for Faraz was a coffee connoisseur. Deek remembered the first time Faraz had invited him to the masjid kitchen to chat about crypto. The man busied himself over an old coffee maker while Deek munched on some leftover birthday cake someone had left in the fridge. Deek, expecting the stale coffee that might be served in a dilapidated mosque kitchen, was stunned when Faraz served a gorgeous brew that was clean and light yet complex, with hints of berries, toffee, and sweet herbs.

Seeing Deek’s amazed expression, Faraz grinned. “Ethiopian. The birthplace of coffee.”

After that, their little crypto get-togethers became hedonistic soirees featuring whatever gourmet coffee Faraz had sourced that week, along with the Petit Ecolier cookies that Deek adored, and of course, long debates about the merits of one crypto over another.

Now, standing in front of Deek in the parking lot, Faraz gestured with his chin and said, “Is okay, you can tell me. How much?”

“Half a billion dollars.”

Faraz’s mouth fell open. Tears sprang to his eyes. He embraced Deek, then stepped back, patted Deek on the chest, and walked away.

Watching him go, Deek tasted sadness like acid in his mouth. Faraz had a wife and three kids. His job at the center didn’t pay much. What did he have left now? Why had Deek gotten rich, while Faraz went bust? It could just as easily have happened the other way around.

He could not help Faraz by simply giving him money. He had learned that much. It would humiliate the man. But maybe there was a way he could help both of them. He thought about it for some time, then made a phone call.

A Trust From Allah

The car was parked in the shade of one of the walnut trees in the masjid’s front yard. Deek sat in the car and rolled down the windows. Part of him wanted to pull his limbs and head into a shell and hide from everyone. Just manage his money and forget the world. But that would mean a lifetime of dreams in which he was haunted by the increasingly strident figments of Rabiah Al-Adawiyyah and Queen Latifah.

He had not forgotten his satori, his realization that he was meant to be a conduit for this money. This wealth was not for him to hoard. In fact, it was not his at all, but was a trust from Allah Subhanahu wa Ta’aala. Nor did he have the right to decide who was worthy and who was not. He was not a judge, nor was his own heart pristine. In fact, he could be a flat-out jerk sometimes. Lubna could certainly testify to that.

He went into a discount clothing store a block away and bought a plain black t-shirt. In the car, he removed the suit jacket, dress shirt, and German watch, and slipped on the t-shirt. He still wore the suit pants, but he mostly looked like a regular guy.

Dr. Rana lived in an upper-middle-class home in Clovis. Deek noticed right away that though the two-story house was quite large, the lawn and garden were overgrown and turning brown. He rang the doorbell and wiped nervous sweat from his upper lip.

The door cracked open, and Dr. Rana stood in the frame. His jaw was tight, his back straight as if he expected confrontation. His eyes, red from sleepless nights, held no warmth.

“Mister Saghir,” the disintegrating doctor said, clipped and formal. “I imagine you have come for an apology.”

Deek raised his hands slightly, palms out. “Not at all. I came to help.”

The stiffness in Rana’s shoulders gave way in an instant. His face twisted, and with a sudden, almost desperate motion, he stepped forward and embraced Deek. His body trembled. “Astaghfirullah,” Rana whispered. “Forgive me.”

Deek patted the man’s back, feeling his spine through his thin shirt. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

Rana gestured him inside. “Please, come.”

Undimmable Grace

The house was dim, curtains drawn. The air carried the faint smells of lentils and disinfectant. Something had left grooves in the carpet. Rana led him to the dining table, muttering, “Sit, sit.” He disappeared into the kitchen and returned with two cups of lukewarm tea, placing one carefully before Deek.

Only then did Rana sit, folding his hands tightly. His voice came soft and halting. “It is AL amyloidosis. We began chemotherapy months ago, but the response has been poor. Her kidneys are failing. The only chance now is a stem cell transplant. But Fresno cannot provide it. UCSF has a long waitlist, Stanford requires an impossible deposit, and the Mayo Clinic…” He shrugged helplessly. “Mayo is the best. But insurance will not cover it. Out of network, they say.”

Deek’s throat constricted. “If nothing is done?”

Rana swallowed hard. “She may have a year. Two, if Allah wills.”

The words hung like ash between them. Then Rana straightened slightly, as if gathering himself. “Would you like to meet her? She is resting, but… let me see if she is able.”

He rose and went down the hall. Deek heard a soft murmur of fatherly tones, the creak of a bed being adjusted. After a pause, Rana returned and nodded, eyes glistening. “She is awake enough. Please.”

He led Deek into the back bedroom. Curtains filtered the light to a dull glow. Against the wall stood a hospital bed, the girl propped on pillows, oxygen tubing running beneath her nose, IV line in her arm. Her face was thin and pale, her hair tucked back beneath a scarf. Her sunken eyes looked up when they entered. So young. A few years older than Sanaya, though the illness made her look aged.

Despite the pallor of illness, there was an undimmable grace about her, a dignity that shone even through the haze of fatigue.

Deek’s breath caught.

“This is my daughter Maryam,” Rana said softly. His hand lingered on the bedrail.

Deek stepped closer, feeling as if he were back on the planet Rust. An alien in a strange world, unfamiliar with the customs, having no words to speak. After a moment, he managed to say, “As-salamu alaykum, Maryam. It’s very nice to meet you. I’ll be making dua’ for your recovery, inshaAllah.”

Her lips curved faintly. Her voice was weak but clear. “Wa alaykum as-salam. I know your daughter… Sanaya. We met… at masjid events. She’s whip-smart. When Shaykh Saleh… asks a question… he sometimes says, ‘Anyone except Sanaya.’ Because he knows… she already knows the answer.”

The words struck Deek like an arrow, and for a moment he could only nod, his throat tight. “That means a lot. JazakiAllahu khayr.”

Rana placed a hand on his daughter’s shoulder. “Rest now, Beti.” She closed her eyes, the faintest smile lingering as they left the room.

Back in the living room, Rana lowered himself heavily into a chair. His hands rubbed together compulsively, his voice hesitant. “I did not introduce you to her to burden you, brother Deek. You’ve already been kind. I only wanted you to understand why—”

Deek raised a hand, firm. “Doctor. Don’t say anything else. I will pay for everything. The treatment, the travel, the lodging, and the bills you owe already. All of it. Don’t argue, don’t refuse. Your daughter’s life is not up for negotiation.”

Rana blinked, as if the words did not register at first. “It could… it could be a lot of money.”

“It wouldn’t matter if it were millions. Consider it paid for.” He handed Rana one of his new business cards. “Email me the info on anyone you owe money to, whether medical providers or anyone else. And send me your bank account information, I’ll deposit some money for your immediate needs.”

Rana sagged back into the chair, covering his face with both hands. When he lowered them, his eyes were wet but steady.

“You are a great man.”

“No.” Deek shook his head. “I’m really not. I just want to know who I am when I look in the mirror.”

“What do you mean?”

Deek smiled. “Nothing, just… trying to figure things out. Mercy is what sustains the world, right? Isn’t that what the Imam said today? I need your mercy on me, Doctor Rana.”

Rana looked astounded. “My mercy on you?”

Deek nodded. “Yes. I think so. I need your dua’, and your friendship. Take care of your daughter, Doctor.”

***

Come back next week for Part 25 inshaAllah

 

Reader comments and constructive criticism are important to me, so please comment!

See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

Day Of The Dogs, Part 1 – Tiny Ripples Of Hope

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

 

The post Moonshot [Part 24] – What Sustains The World appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

When Ahmed Al-Sharaa addressed the United Nations on September 25th, he made history as the first Syrian president to do so in 60 years.

He also capped a remarkable string of successes that no human could have imagined when Bashar al-Assad was sitting pretty in Damascus a year ago.

A Long List of Accomplishments

In the nine months since Al-Sharaa’s rebel alliance shocked the world by toppling the Assad regime, his transition government has pulled off success after success amid mortal challenges.

He has maintained the loyalty of hardened fighters, some of whom were probably ready to string up former Assad officials and charge into the occupied Golan Heights.

He has struck interim deals with other rebel factions and, so far, avoided full-blown conflict with the Syrian Democratic Forces even as it stalls on integration.

He has signed an interim constitution that established a path to representative government, satisfied public expectations for governance rooted in Islam, and guaranteed religious freedom to Syria’s diverse population.

He has shown respect for various Islamic schools of thought and embraced Syria’s Christian, Druze, and Alawite citizens, consulting with their leaders and sending soldiers to protect their houses of worship.

He has built diplomatic ties with countries usually at odds with each other, like the UAE, Turkey, Saudi Arabia, and Qatar, avoiding the coup plots that doomed Egypt’s first democratically elected president, the late Dr. Mohamed Morsi.

He has defused multiple violent sectarian flare-ups instigated by separatist militias, Assad loyalists, and the Israeli government, all of whom seek to destabilize the government and ultimately partition the country.

He has condemned abuses by his own forces committed during those clashes and launched independent investigations into the violence.

He has secured multiple meetings with President Trump, who lifted executive branch sanctions on Syria without demanding that the country jump through years of hoops or make intolerable concessions, such as joining the so-called Abraham Accords.

The Muslim World’s Eyes On Syria

Now Al-Sharaa has made history at the United Nations. In his brief speech, he reintroduced Syria to the world, outlined his vision for the future, and concluded with support for the people of Gaza.

As the world now watches Syria’s progress with cautious optimism, Syrians are not the only ones rooting for his success.

So are many Muslims across the globe who have endured years of political heartbreak: Israel’s genocide in Gaza and ethnic cleansing of the West Bank, the rise of Hindutva extremism in India, the genocidal persecution of Uyghurs in China and Rohingya in Myanmar, civil wars in Libya, Yemen and Sudan, and renewed autocracy in Egypt and Tunisia.

The apparent victory of the Assad regime over Syrian revolutionaries was perhaps the most bitter pill for the Muslim world to swallow, and his sudden downfall was widely seen as a miracle.

If Al-Sharaa’s government now succeeds in reuniting, stabilizing, and reconstructing Syria, that, too, would be a miracle—one that could make the 42-year-old an inspiring political leader in the Arab and Muslim world for decades to come.

Al-Sharaa’s Syria vs. Israel

Perhaps that explains why the Israeli government has spent months trying to undermine Al-Sharaa by smearing him to Western audiences, destroying Syria’s military assets, lobbying the U.S. to maintain its sanctions, enabling separatist militias to rebel, and even threatening to assassinate Al-Sharaa himself.

Israel opposes Syria’s new government for the same reason it opposed the Arab Spring: it wants Syria and the wider Arab Muslim world internally divided, militarily weak, and politically impotent—ruled by dictators who keep a lid on the tens of millions of people who want their governments to reflect their values and stand up for the Palestinian people.

Benjamin Netanyahu recently justified bombing Syria by saying, “I understand who we are dealing with.” Indeed, Netanyahu sees in Al-Sharaa what many Muslims see: a devout, pragmatic warrior-turned-politician who managed to subdue extremist groups like Al-Qaeda and ISIS, spearhead the overthrow of an entrenched dictator backed by a superpower, and restore Syria to its rightful place in the world, all in a few years.

To be clear, Al-Sharaa does have critics in the Muslim world, who usually accuse him of being a tool of the West or argue he has not done enough to help Gaza or respond to Israel’s attacks on Syria. Yet no one should be surprised by Al-Sharaa’s hostility to Iran and Hezbollah, given the sectarian violence they unleashed against the Syrian people to prop up the Assad regime, and no one should have expected his forces to somehow stop the Gaza genocide or jump into a war with Israel, given their limited military strength, unprotected airspace, and tenuous control of Syria.

What Al-Sharaa has done instead is repeatedly condemn Israel’s attacks on Gaza and refuse to join the Abraham Accords despite the Caesar sanctions that Israel First members of Congress still dangle over his government.

Although Al-Sharaa’s tenure has hardly been perfect and the future of Syria’s transition remains unclear, the Syrian people and Muslims around the world have reason to hope that he will continue to make history and maybe, just maybe, inspire other Arab Muslim nations to do the same.

 

Related:

– Fort Down In A Fortnight: Syrian Insurgents Oust Assad Regime

The post Is Syria’s New President The Type Of Political Leader Muslims Have Been Waiting For? appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Have you ever heard of the ‘trolley problem’? It’s a thought experiment involving two hypothetical scenarios that prompts us to examine our own morals and ethics, and has resulted in numerous variations. One offshoot of this classic dilemma is as follows: ‘If you were to press a button to win 5 million dollars but kill 5 people somewhere in the world, would you press it?’ This question forces you to shorten the distance between yourself and a ‘faraway’ problem. While many of us may easily disregard this particular quandary as unchallenging and fictional, how many of us could easily dismiss the real-life trolley problems we face?

In recent years, Temu, a Chinese online marketplace, has skyrocketed in popularity, not only in the United States but also in countries like my own, Sri Lanka. Ranked the world’s second-best e-commerce platform, it’s known for its rock-bottom prices, ridiculously high and frequent discounts, and for the sheer variety of products it offers. It can attract customers with high-end taste as well as those with an appetite for aesthetic gimcracks, many of which can be purchased in bulk for half the price found elsewhere. Sounds too good to be true? Well, if you have any qualms, the arrival of the vibrant orange package at your doorstep —the item inside in perfect condition— will immediately squash it. 

By design, Temu is meant to beguile you, and, true to its slogan, you can shop like a billionaire.  I’ll admit, I too, was convinced in the beginning; I bookmarked products I wanted to buy in the future, products that reflected my Pinterest boards, products I could customise – it was easy to fall in love with this marketplace. That compulsion, however, was soon stifled when I learnt of its dark secrets. How does a large marketplace like Temu maintain its appealing price tags? 

Temu and Forced Labour

Fast fashion often comes at the cost of something, and while many of us may direct our attention to its ill effects on the environment, the allure of Temu whitewashes its complicity in human rights abuses. 

East Turkestan (or its colonial name ‘Xinjiang’, which translates to ‘New Territory’) is a region at the center of grave human rights abuses, an annexed region in China, and home to Uyghurs and other Muslim minorities. These communities have been forced into labour by Chinese companies affiliated with the Chinese Communist Party (CCP). In turn, the CCP disguises these camps as projects to ‘alleviate the province’s poverty’ and has displaced labourers to other areas, some as far as 2,600 miles away from home, to avoid import bans. 

Yet, despite these concerns, Temu does not have a system in place to vet products in its marketplace. The company has even admitted to not barring ‘third-party sellers from selling products based on their origin in the Xinjiang Autonomous Region’. To make matters worse, its parent company, PDD Holders, was once accused of mandating its employees “to work 380 hours per month, which resulted in several deaths”. But the issue of human rights abuses does not end there.

Genocide in East Turkestan

China’s campaign against these communities is all-encompassing, and, as pointed out by Uyghur intellectual and activist, Mamtimin Ala, there’s a problem when we narrow the discussion to just forced labour. It deflects from a wider conversation that China is committing a genocide. 

Uyghurs and the other ethnic groups have faced violent crackdowns for adhering to their religion or maintaining their cultural heritage and traditions. They face imprisonment for basic practices such as fasting during Ramadan, wearing the hijab, abstaining from alcohol, or even engaging with the Qur’an. A report by The Guardian exposed these abuses, like the example of a 70-year-old Uyghur woman who was arrested and given a six-year prison sentence for “studying the Qur’an between April and May 1967, wearing conservative religious dress between 2005 and 2014, and keeping an electronic Qur’an reader at home”. In another ludicrous case, an Uyghur woman was sentenced to prison for ten years for “illegally studying scripture with her mother for three days […] when she was just five or six years old”.

Muslim trainees work in a garment factory at the Hotan Vocational Education and Training Center in Hotan, Xinjiang, northwest China. (CCTV via AP Video, File)

These crackdowns are ultimately a result of China’s deep-seated fear — an inability to maintain totalitarian control over people: mind, body, and soul. But through intensive surveillance, fear is then inversely permeated within these communities. Such nauseating anxiety of being watched becomes a punishment in itself. “[Islam] has to be gone completely [for the CCP],” Uyghur activist Arslan Hidayat said, “so that [Uyghurs] are not able to implement it into their lives, when they’re making decisions about what to eat, when they’re making decisions about how to do business, how to interact with individuals, who they choose to marry, what they choose to wear.”

But it’s not just religion. Using their own language, lacking zeal when using Mandarin, or being absent from “flag-raising ceremonies” also puts them at risk. 

Isn’t there a cruel irony in all of this? Through our purchases, we rob people of their freedom of expression just so we can own products that pander to our taste.

With identity markers labelled as “extremism”, these individuals are thrown into horrific “re-education” detention camps, where human rights abuses are rampant. In a 45-page report published in 2022 by former UN human rights commissioner, Michelle Bachelet, abuses against Uyghurs include “beatings with electric batons while being strapped in a “tiger chair”” (chairs which captives are tied to and kept in painful positions) as well as subjugation to extended periods of solitary confinement. Other forms of torture include rape, forced sterilisation, forced disappearances, and organ harvesting. 

China allegedly plans to increase its organ transplant centres by 2030. This expansion ultimately means that there will be a total of nine organ transplant centres for a mere population of 26 million. That’s alarmingly excessive and should raise a lot of questions, especially when official records show that the region generally has a low donation rate. Contrast that ratio with the Guizhou province in China: the province, as highlighted by The Telegraph, has only three transplant centres for its population of 39 million. 

The Chairperson of the ‘End Transplant Abuse in China (ETAC)’ organisation has said, from marginalised prisoners alone, “[organs] were harvested forcefully, including from otherwise healthy prisoners against their will” and were sometimes done so while “the patients were still alive”.

Call to Action

When we bear witness to the Ummah’s suffering, what should our response be? 

To answer this, I’d like to highlight an incident that occurred during the life of Jabir ibn Abdullah .

It is reported that one day, Jabir was carrying some meat with him when he encountered Umar ibn al-Khattab . When the latter inquired about it, Jabir replied, “Amir al-Muminin. We desired meat, and I bought some meat for a dirham.” Umar then said, “Does one of you want to fill his belly apart from his neighbour or nephew? How can you overlook this ayat? ‘You squandered your good things in the life of this world and sought comfort in them.'”[Surah Al-Ahqaf: 46;20]

From this brief interaction, we observe how Umar   linked individual consumption with an awareness of the needs of others. Putting this into practice will undoubtedly instill a sense of contentment and empathy. But the lesson Umar conveys here can teach us a lot more and should shake us into introspection. If we are to be mindful of our purchases because others lack them, what can be said if our purchases directly affect them? 

It is not enough to simply acknowledge the atrocities committed against the Uyghurs. This would make no difference, especially when one is a contributor to that pain. The Prophet said,

“A Muslim is a brother of another Muslim, so he should not oppress him, nor should he hand him over to an oppressor.” [Sahih al-Bukhari 2442]

Hence, I believe it’s time we reject marketplaces like Temu. In fact, some of the ‘ulema are active proponents of boycott movements. Sheikh Abdullah ash-Shanqiti, for instance, has said that if we declare ‘we will not import [China’s] products until they stop mistreating Muslims, that will be beneficial for the Muslims. […] It is as if [Muslims] are unaware of what is beneficial for them. Their enemies plan for them, and they execute these plans. Therefore, look at this weakness and this failure.’ To not do so, Sheikh remarked, would be a wasted opportunity.

Since 2023, there has been a robust amplification of the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions (BDS) movement for Palestine. Unfortunately, while people tend to boycott the goods, they freeze the principles behind such a movement. Palestinian writer Muhammed el-Kurd once highlighted the importance of creating analogies for people to understand causes better and the connections between them. “The fault in a lot of what we do,” he said, “is that we tend to exceptionalise Palestine and we tend to exceptionalise Zionism.” The principles gained from the BDS movement must transcend one cause as they are grounded in solidarity with the oppressed and are against the imperial rule it presides over. 

So, in a full circle moment, we go back to the trolley problem. Are we really willing to purchase from Temu, knowing fully well that the one dress we bought could have been the cause of much pain and suffering to a ‘faraway’ Uyghur Muslim? 

 

Related:

– Understanding Boycotts And Buying Within Our Communities

– Top Books To Read On Uyghur Cause

 

The post Is Your Temu Package Made With Uyghur Forced Labour? appeared first on MuslimMatters.org.

Rania suffers an emotional breakdown, and Deek’s relationship with his daughters goes downhill.

Previous Chapters: Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9 | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13| Part 14 | Part 15 | Part 16 | Part 17 | Part 18 | Part 19 | Part 20 | Part 21 | Part 22

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A man came to the Prophet (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) and said, “O Messenger of Allah, direct me to an act which, if I do it, [will cause] Allah to love me and the people to love me.” So he (peace and blessings of Allah be upon him) said, “Renounce the world and Allah will love you, and renounce what the people possess and the people will love you.” – Ibn Majah

Remember the Good Stuff

By the time Rania had finished her impassioned recitation of the poem, tears coursed freely down her cheeks. Deek pressed his palms into his eyes to stifle his own imminent tears.

“Do you remember,” Rania went on, “our first little apartment on Millbrook?”

“It was hot and miserable, and we used to fight.”

“That’s not what I remember. I think about the sprinkler.”

Deek smiled involuntarily. They’d bought a rotary sprinkler for the little high-fenced backyard, and when the apartment grew too hot, they would play in the sprinkler. Rania would hike her dress to her knees and dance a flowing, graceful khaleeji dance, making billowing motions with the skirt.

“I forgot about that.”

“That’s your problem,” Rania said. “All you remember is crypto passwords. You forget the good times.”

Deek smiled slyly. “Oh, I remember plenty of the good stuff.”

“Okay, so?”

Deek inhaled deeply through his nose, then let it out. “Here’s where I get stuck. What if I had not struck it rich in crypto? What if I were still working like a dog in that sweltering closet, trying and failing? Would you be reciting love poetry and talking about the good old days? Or would you still be ridiculing me, shouting at me, and hanging out with Dr. Townsend?”

Now it was Rania’s turn to look away. Deek saw her jaw muscles clench and relax as she wiped tears away with her sleeve.

What Do You See?

To Deek’s shock, Rania suddenly leaned across and grabbed his jacket with both hands. Her face came close to his, and he thought she might kiss him. This thrilled him, but at the same time, he didn’t want it. He pulled away, but she held him tight.

“Look into my eyes, habibi. What do you see?” His wife stared into his eyes from only a few inches away. He could feel the heat coming off her skin and smell the tuna on her breath. Her eyes were as wide and dark as the night sky. Looking into those beautiful orbs, he saw love, fear, worry, and anger. He tried to speak, but his tongue was tied. Desire and resentment warred inside him, two old enemies battling alone on a scarred and barren plain. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Well?” Rania demanded.

Deek closed his eyes tightly and dropped his chin.

“Fine!” Rania thrust him away and moved back to her seat. Her mouth was a hard line. “Undo it all, then.” She tossed the Milestone debit card onto the dashboard. “Keep that. I’ll send back the money you transferred. Don’t give me anything at all. Keep it all for yourself, I don’t care. But come back to me.”

“Yeah.” He blurted out the first thing that came into his head. “But you know I have the money. So you can say that.”

Anger flashed across her face. “Ya electric eel! What will convince you? Whatever I say, you respond with suspicion. This money has poisoned you. Keep it all and don’t give me a penny. Wallahi, I mean it. Keep it all. Cancel the trust payments. I have to get back to work.” She exited the car and walked away.

Mummifying Himself

Watching her depart, Deek chewed on his lip. She’d said many beautiful things. She was right, what did he expect her to do? The answer was that he didn’t know. He had no idea what he wanted. He was a bull in a china shop, smashing everything around him because, well, that’s what happens when you put a bull in a tight space.

Zaid had once said, “Go the distance,” but what did that mean now? Deek was already wealthier than he could have ever imagined. Love of money might be the root of all evil, but Deek had been poor as well, and that wasn’t fun at all. So why did he feel like this crypto windfall was a slow poison working its way through his system, not killing him but turning him into a shade of his former self?

If love and forgiveness brought people’s hearts closer, then money seemed to do the opposite. It spurred misunderstandings, resentments, and even violence.

Deek felt like he was outfitting his own tomb. He was a pharaoh of old, but instead of having slaves to bury him when he died, he was doing it with his own hands: digging the tunnel, excavating the silent subterranean room, and filling it with the treasures that would surround him when he was nothing but a rotting corpse. Soon he’d be wrapping himself in cloth, mummifying himself for the long, still, and solitary centuries to come. The tomb might be called the Marco Polo, and the mummy’s rags were an Italian suit.

Adrift On The Tigris

Rania consoled herself with the thought that she’d done the best she could. She’d laid her heart open like a spatchcocked chicken. Limping painfully back to pediatrics, she made a little gesture with her hand, as if to say, it is what it is.

She had been tempted – when Deek was blathering on about the old Rania vs the new Rania, as if she were a soft drink whose formula had changed – to tell him about the home office she was building for him. But no, the office was a gift and an expression of love. She would not cheapen it by turning it into ammunition to fire at him during an argument. He would learn about it when he came home, inshaAllah. If he did not, he would not.

Unlike Deek, she knew what money was for. It existed to serve the needs of the family and the deen. Not to separate people.

She imagined herself now as a woman standing on a raft, adrift in the great Tigris River with no oar. The current would take her where it would. Hasbun Allahu wa ne’m Al-Wakeel.

Desiccated Fruit

It was very late when she arrived home, and the girls were asleep. The small knife stabbing her in the back had turned into a sword. Every step was an effort. She turned on the kitchen light, grabbed a yogurt out of the fridge, and saw the backpack on the table. This must be what Deek had sent with the girls.

She unzipped it and saw that it was stuffed with cash. There were wrapped stacks of 50 and 100-dollar bills. There was no letter, no card. Nothing personal at all. Just money.

She counted it. Two hundred thousand dollars. She felt her face turning hot. Was this a family or a mafia operation? Nostrils flaring with fury, she seized the backpack and shook it. The money stacks spilled out like desiccated fruit falling from a drought-struck tree. Rage suffused her body down to the very cells. She grabbed the edge of the dining table and lifted. The table tipped over with a crash, spilling the money and yogurt to the floor, along with last Sunday’s newspaper, a notebook, a pile of bills, and a glass bowl filled with fruit.

The bowl shattered, sending glass in every direction. Apples rolled across the floor and thudded against the wall. The money packs hit with a soft thud. At the same time, Rania’s back gave way, and she fell to the floor with a cry. She heard shouts from the girls’ rooms and a moment later they ran out, barefoot and hair disheveled. Their faces showed fear and shock. Sanaya looked all around, imagining an intruder, then stepped on broken glass and shouted, hopping on one foot. Amira was frozen in place.

Yet still Rania’s rage had not abated. As the girls – stepping carefully – pulled her off the floor, she rolled up to her knees and elbows and slapped the ground with one hand, sobbing.

The girls began to weep as well. Amira’s arms circled her and held on tightly. “It’s okay, Mom, ” her daughter said between sobs. “Everything’s okay.”

She had to stop. She was scaring her daughters. With an effort, she brought herself under control. “I’m sorry,” she told them. “You’re right, everything’s fine.”

With the girls’ help, she made it to the sofa, where she took a hydrocodone pill with a glass of water, then lay on her back with two cushions beneath her legs.

Sanaya sat beside her, cleaning and bandaging her own foot while Amira swept up the broken glass.

“I’m sorry about your foot,” Rania said.

“What’s going on, Mom?”

“You’re legit freaking us out,” Amira added.

“I’m sorry. I had an awful day, plus my back hurts. I lost a patient. Then I came home and saw all that money from your father, like he thinks it makes everything okay. I lost it. I went crazy.”

“Do you want to go to the hospital?” Sanaya asked.

Rania gave a bitter laugh. “I just came from there.”

Sanaya made a helpless motion. “What do you want us to do?”

Rania reached out and pulled her daughter into an embrace. “I’m fine now. I’ll sleep here. You two go back to bed.” She waved a hand toward the kitchen. “Tomorrow I want you to take that money back to your father.”

Electric Eel

The girls righted the table and picked up the fruit and other items. They each kissed her cheek, then returned to bed. Rania lay in the dark, regulating her breathing, trying to wrestle the hot pain into submission, and when that failed, trying to push it to the edge of her awareness. She breathed in through the nose, out through the mouth. Silently, she cursed cryptocurrency and wished it had never been invented.

The money in that backpack presented a dilemma. If she kept it, she could take a sabbatical from her job and pursue other opportunities. She could take the girls on a vacation. But the price was too high.

Deek was slipping away. It hadn’t escaped her notice that he’d spoken of their marriage in the past tense. She was trying to hold on to an electric eel, but it was too filled with voltage. Yet she would not let go, for though he thought he was leaving her behind, in reality, he was leaving the water that sustained him.

The refrigerator hummed, and ice from the ice maker rattled into the tray. A nightbird called with a mournful sound. She recited Surat Al-Ikhlaas, Al-Falaq, and An-Naas, then made her usual dua’ before sleeping. Finally, the pain faded, and sleep came like a ferryman, taking her – for a few hours at least – across an expanse of Stygian water, to a place where the only reality was Allah’s watchful dominion, and the only interruption would be her daily resurrection, by Allah’s will.

Neither Friends Nor Enemies

A knock sounded on the door of Deek’s suite early the next morning. Still sleepy-eyed, he opened the door expecting the maid, but there stood Sanaya. She was always a serious girl, but this morning she looked especially solemn.

“Sanaya!” He reached to give her a hug, but she pulled back. She did not greet him with salam. Instead, she thrust the backpack at him and said, “Mom had a breakdown last night. She doesn’t want the money.” She hesitated, then added, “Amira and I each kept a stack of cash.” Then she walked away.

Deek stood blinking. “Hey!” he called after Sanaya’s disappearing form, but she did not respond, and was soon gone, like a cheetah passing a lion in the tall grass and shying away, neither friends nor enemies.

It was one of the briefest and least amicable interactions he’d ever had with his eldest daughter.

The Man In The Mirror

Sinking into the desk chair with a worried frown, he texted Rania. “What happened? Sanaya says you had a breakdown. Why did you send back the money?”

He had been looking at Fresno real estate, particularly riverside homes, and as he browsed the offerings, he repeatedly glanced at his phone, awaiting Rania’s response. When it came, it was terse: “I had a bad day. I’m fine. Don’t want any money from you.”

He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. So Rania wanted nothing to do with him. Lashing out, he kicked the bottom of the desk sullenly, then said, “Ow!” as his toes throbbed with pain.

It was time to move out of this hotel. He needed a real home. There was a high-end real estate office at Palm and Nees, near the river. They had an electronic board in the window that displayed some of their offerings, and Deek had looked at it from time to time in the past, fantasizing about which of the homes he would buy if he had the money. He looked up the number and made an appointment for 10:30 am.

He showered and put on the third suit he’d purchased, sliding into the charcoal herringbone jacket like it was armor. The fabric hugged his frame, clean and tailored, the steel-blue shirt beneath catching the light just enough to reflect his mood — sharp, cool, detached. He strapped on the knife as well, but it was mostly covered by the suit jacket, with only the tip showing along his hip.

Looking at himself in the mirror, he took a breath. The suit looked good. Yet he felt like he was looking at a stranger. How was he supposed to feel, wearing something like this? Showy and smiling like a politician? Cool and detached, like James Bond? Or sharp, like a Wall Street finance shark? He’d always known exactly who he was. Deek Saghir, son of an honorable Iraqi family, a Muslim, a loving husband, and a doting father. A man who worked hard to provide. A man with dreams that seemed beyond his reach, but toward which he was not afraid to stretch his arm. But the man in the mirror was someone he did not know.

Nomos Glashütte Tangente

The meeting with the real estate agent was still a few hours away, but he was already rehearsing how he’d ask for something bold — something no one else could find. A fortress by the river. A place to disappear.

His eyes drifted to the prayer rug rolled up on a chair. Today was Jum’ah. He hesitated. Was this suit too much for the masjid? Too expensive? Too loud?

He shook his head. I earned it. I’m walking my path. I have nothing to be ashamed of. He smoothed the lapels and reached for his wallet. It occurred to him that he wanted a watch. It seemed beneath him to have to dig his phone out whenever he wanted a time check. A man who was dressed as he was should have a watch.

Tangente Nomos Glashütte wristwatch

The clothing shop in the hotel lobby offered a selection of fine watches. Deek went downstairs, browsed for a bit, and bought a German watch called a Nomos Glashütte. The Tangente model cost over two thousand dollars, yet had a minimalist design with a thin profile. The saleswoman assured him that the watch could last generations, and would make an excellent heirloom.

He devoured a spinach and mushroom omelette in the hotel restaurant, being careful not to stain the suit.

Leaving the hotel, he made a quick stop at a print shop and ordered business cards. They printed 100 for him on the spot and told him he could pick up the rest of the order tomorrow. The cards furnished his name, phone number, and email, and nothing else.

The meeting with the real estate company was a farce. He was assigned an older man with lacquered white hair and an unnaturally bright smile. The man pulled out an actual, honest-to-goodness plastic binder and showed him home flyers in plastic sleeves. None were remotely what Deek was looking for. Unfazed, the man ushered Deek out to a silver Lexus and spent an hour and a half driving him from one McMansion to another, all of them miles from the river. “You’ll love the HOA pool, Mr. Saghir,” he said brightly.

Deek instructed the man to return him to the office, thanked him, and walked out without taking the man’s proffered card.

Masjid Madinah

It was time for Jum’ah. Masjid Madinah was small, with an actual grassy front yard shaded by walnut trees, and a ping pong table in back. Very different from Masjid Umar, where he’d gone last week. Where Umar served a community of wealthy immigrant males, Madinah was mostly working-class converts: African-Americans, Latinos, and the occasional Caucasian, with a scattering of immigrants. Women actually outnumbered men. Rather than a private ethnic club, Masjid Madinah felt like a family.

Deek was early, and the masjid was mostly empty. Sitting with his back to the wall, he noticed that the paint on the walls, which formerly had been peeling and worn, was now fresh and bright, and the once threadbare carpets had been replaced with lush new rugs. He knew this was probably due to his donation, and this made him smile.

It was hard to believe that it had been only a week since he’d struck it rich in crypto. It was only last Friday that he’d bought the doomed Porsche. Crazy how much had happened.

He texted Rania again, asking her how she was. Then he picked up a mushaf and read for a while, refreshing his memory of the Juz ‘Ammah surahs. The much-needed sense of peace that had eluded him by the riverside finally descended. He felt like he was sitting beside a high-country lake in Yosemite, like the gorgeous Dog Lake at 9,0o0 feet. He and Marco had driven up there one summer and picnicked beside the mirror-bright water and crowded pines. The memory was like a dream: the stillness and silence, but for the rat-a-tatting of a woodpecker, and the occasional call of a frog.

His first indication of impending trouble came when he heard loud whispering and looked up to see a couple of young Latino brothers studying him intently. In fact, a lot of eyes were on him. Looking around, he shrank into himself when his eyes met those of Dr. Rana, a slight acquaintance whom he’d talked to a few times. The Pakistani cardiologist was staring at Deek as if he meant to devour him. His thinning hair was disheveled, and his dress shirt was wrinkled. His eyes were hollow, as if he hadn’t slept in many days.

Deek breathed a sigh of relief when Imam Saleh walked in. The masjid was full from wall to wall by then. The Imam must have noticed the air of agitation, because after beginning his khutbah, he stopped to call for silence, then continued.

***

Come back next week for Part 24 inshaAllah

 

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See the Story Index for Wael Abdelgawad’s other stories on this website.

Wael Abdelgawad’s novels – including Pieces of a Dream, The Repeaters and Zaid Karim Private Investigator – are available in ebook and print form on his author page at Amazon.com.

Related:

Day Of The Dogs, Part 1 – Tiny Ripples Of Hope

Searching for Signs of Spring: A Short Story

 

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